


Paying Her Way

by sock_bealady



Category: The Last of Us (Video Games)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Coming Out, Drug Addiction, Dubious Consent, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Grooming, Hurt/Comfort, LGBTQ Themes, Loss of Virginity, Plot, Power Imbalance, Praise Kink, Pseudo-Incest, Rape Aftermath, Sexual Violence, Underage Prostitution, Underage Rape/Non-con, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:48:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 14
Words: 72,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26207440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sock_bealady/pseuds/sock_bealady
Summary: There are three things Ellie is sure of.  One:  Joel is a pedophile.  Two:  Joel cares about her.  Three:  Joel isn't okay with either of the first two things.An AU retelling of Part 1 wherein Joel is an unrepentant child predator, Ellie establishes a survival-sex relationship with him, and somehow they end up bonding all the same.
Relationships: David/Ellie (The Last of Us), Ellie/Joel (The Last of Us), Joel (The Last of Us)/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 115
Kudos: 342





	1. Killing Time

**Author's Note:**

> I swore I would never post this fic . . .
> 
> DISCLAIMER: READ THIS FIRST OR ELSE  
> This fic contains graphic underage content of a non-con/dub-con variety between Joel and fourteen-year-old Ellie. It features a victim and her abuser developing an intimate (though not romantic) relationship in which they both try to grow past the trauma (even while it's still ongoing). Pedophilia will, at times, be presented in unrealistic or even fantastical ways. Both narrators (Joel and Ellie) should be considered unreliable, especially when it comes to their feelings for each other. IF ANY OF THIS WILL BE UNHEALTHY FOR YOU TO READ, FOR ANY REASON, TURN BACK NOW.
> 
> To salve my conscience, an end note will be included after most chapters in which I discuss the ways in which what I've portrayed is unhealthy or unrealistic. I will be calling these "The Cold Shower." Feedback is appreciated, but comments will be moderated.
> 
> Also, please note that the first chapter is probably the most 'dubious' from a consent perspective and is one of the darkest encounters of the whole story, largely due to how unrepentant Joel is about everything.

Joel stretches out on the couch, covering a grimace as the dents and dings from too many fights start to hit him. That whole mess with Robert and nothing to show for it . . . A scowl darkens his face and he half wants to open his eyes to glare at the girl, but it's not her fault she's in this mess. Probably, at least. So far as he knows.

"What are you doing?" Her voice is anxious and a little hostile. His scowl deepens.

"Killing time."

"Well, what am I supposed to do?"

He opens his eyes and looks at her. She's fidgeting. Her left hand rubs at the opposite forearm in a way that seems subconscious. He's got a mind to just brush her off. All he has to do is ignore her for a couple of hours, then haul her to the drop off point. There's no reason to do anything that might piss off the client or endanger his pay day. But, he can feel a dark energy creeping under his skin like a parasite. It's been building since the moment he found out that Robert tried to kill Tess. If he doesn't do something about it soon, it'll boil over, maybe even before they make it to the Capitol Building, and then they're both screwed.

He sits up and the animosity drains from his expression. He beckons with one hand. "C'mere."

Suspicion flashes across her face, but she takes a few halting steps toward him. She's not going to make this easy, but Joel doesn't want easy right now. He takes her by the wrist and hauls her in, but pauses a moment to rub his thumb over her pulse point.

Suspicion turns to alarm. "What are you doing?"

He lets his knees fall apart. She's not quite standing between them. He doesn't let go of her wrist, but his other hand slips behind her back. He pushes her shirt up an inch and brushes over her tailbone with a finger. "You in the trade, girl?"

"What trade?"

He huffs a soft laugh and slides his hand more fully under her shirt. "If you have to ask, then the answer is no." He slides all the way up to her bare shoulder blades. She's not wearing a bra. "That's okay."

She goes tense all over. "No. I'm not some kind of fucking whore."

"Never said you were." She's trying to tug her arm away. He makes his grip firm but not hard. "Settle down."

He's half-expecting the knife, but he's still startled at how quickly she whips it out. He has to twitch his leg aside to avoid being stabbed in the thigh. The girl's clearly got the killer instinct because she swings at his _face_ next, but he bats the blade away and catches her other wrist. He makes his face stern but not angry. "How many times you gonna try and stab me today?"

She glares at him, not even a little cowed. "Depends."

He stands up and twists her so that her back is to him, her arms crossed in front of her. She tenses a little further at the casual display of strength. He pins her wrists with one hand and plucks the knife from her fingers with the other. She struggles, but he ignores it as he drops the knife and kicks it under the couch. "Behave yourself and you'll get this back."

She tries to kick him in the shins. "Fat fucking chance."

He snorts and lays a hand right under her breast bone. She can probably feel him start to harden against her. "You say that word like someone who don't know what it means."

Her anxiety tips over into panic. She kicks and flails until he has to pick her up by the shoulders. "Get your fucking hands off of me!"

"Ellie! Calm down. You're alright, girl, I'm not gonna go that far." Her struggles slow, then stop. She's reacting less to his words than to the realization that fighting him physically isn't going to get her anywhere. She's trembling, and Joel takes a moment to squeeze her shoulder as he sets her on her feet. "Now, I _could_ make you. We both know it. But, you're an amateur, and I'm not looking to scare the shit out of you. So, I'm just gonna touch a little and then let you go. I'm not gonna hurt you."

He relaxes his grip and turns her to face him. She's trying to glare. "Marlene is going to fucking kill you."

He grunts. "Marlene knows what I am." It's a half-truth. His reputation gets around and there's no way that a survivor like Marlene would've picked him for this job without looking into him. And yet, she's still foisted the girl off on him when she could just as easily have left her with Tess and dragged Joel off to see their guns. Maybe she doesn't care. Or maybe she's heard _all_ the stories and she knows that this is just about the only way to get him bonded to someone.

Her eyes are wide and she's chewing on her lip. "She wouldn't do that to me."

"Wouldn't she? Marlene wants you safe. And she knows there's things out there way more dangerous than the likes of me. I'm gonna protect you from that, but you need to pay your way a little bit."

"You're getting paid! The fucking guns."

"The Fireflies are paying - or at least so they claim. What are _you_ giving up?"

She swallows. "This is fucked."

He releases her and moves back a half step. "Go on then. Run right out that door. I ain't stopping you. See how long you can keep away from whatever it is you're running from."

She draws a shaky breath, but there's a bit of flint in her eyes. "I'm not running away."

"Good. Because that would be stupid."

"You're a fucking dick, you know that?"

"So I've been told."

Something in her face goes very hard. "Have it your way, then." 

She seems to want to take a step towards him but can't quite bring herself to do it. Joel takes the step instead. He brushes a hand over her hair and cups the back of her neck. Now that she's submitting, he can feel his demons start to quiet a little. The feel of her skin settles into him, calming. "Don't look so worried. You're gonna enjoy this."

"Fat _fucking_ chance."

He smiles. "You will. Whether you want to or not." She reflexively glances down at the bulge in his jeans. He tips her chin back up. "Don't worry. You ain't gonna have to touch it. You don't even have to look at it if you don't want to."

He directs her to turn, then slides both hands gently up her front, rucking up her long-sleeved tee shirt and exposing a pale, smooth stomach, dusted here and there with freckles. He runs his palms lightly over her small breasts, first through the thin fabric of the shirt. She takes a reflexive half step back, but stops when that only presses her into his chest. He wraps an arm around her waist. "Easy," he murmurs. One hand slides under her shirt and just cups the underside of one breast for a moment, weighing it in his hand. He slides over and gives the other the same treatment. She's small for her age - under-developed, in more ways than one. Her breasts are small and firm - more than buds, but less than a handful.

He slides a thumb up and brushes lightly over her nipple. It's small, like the rest of her, and it stiffens immediately at his touch. "How's that feel?" he asks softly.

"Weird." Her voice is a little strained, but not quite as hostile as it had been.

He smiles and settles his hand more firmly over her breast. He pinches the nipple between thumb and forefinger and rolls gently, drawing a whine. "Yeah, your chest is still coming in. It's as sensitive now as it's ever gonna be." He catches both thumbs in her shirt and pushes up. "Bet it looks real pretty, too."

She clamps her arms down to keep him from pulling the shirt all the way off, and Joel decides to allow her that. He pushes the fabric up almost around her neck, though, exposing the pale curve of her breasts. The nipples are small and pink and perfect. Everything about her feels _right_. Right age, right shape, right size. Even her earlier defiance stirs something in him - something that's probably dark but never _feels_ that way. A sense of peace washes over him as he settles his hands on her bare skin - a protectiveness. "Good girl," he murmurs as his hands massage her breasts, "You're doing good." She relaxes a little against him. He makes a mental note that she responds well to praise. It's not that unusual. Most kids these days are orphans dying for a little bit of affection.

He turns her in his arms and drinks in the sight of her. Her face is flushed and she seems more self-conscious than angry. She keeps stealing glances up at him through her eyelashes. He wishes he could see her peeking at him through a few streaks of white, but that would be way too much for her right now. He backs up a step, sits on the couch, and draws her between his knees. She follows easily enough and doesn't flinch when he settles his hands on her shoulders.

Her breasts are right at his eye level now, and he takes a moment to admire them before pulling her in and wrapping his lips around one nipple. She gasps and tips forward. He pulls his mouth away for a moment. "Brace yourself. Hands on my shoulders, or the back of the couch." Her hands are shaking, but she settles them on his shoulders. He seals his mouth over her nip again and laves it with his tongue. From the way she twitches and spasms, he's almost sure no one's ever done this to her before. He applies just a little bit of suction, careful not to overwhelm her, then gives the slick flesh just the tiniest scrape with his teeth.

Her breath hitches. "Fuck," she whispers.

Joel leans back, smiling and rolls it between his fingers. "How's that? Feel good?"

" _Fuck_ ," she says fervently.

"Want me to do the other one?"

Her face is flushed, her eyes closed, but she gasps at his tone. " _Fuck_ you."

"I'll take that as a yes." He presses a kiss just above her other breast, then brushes his mouth over that nipple instead. She gasps and trembles, her hands tightening on his shoulders. He works her nip carefully with his lips and tongue until she's letting out little whimpers and cries and unconsciously pressing her chest into him.

Once she's as amped up as he can get her, he leans back and flicks open the button on her jeans. That cools her arousal a bit. She tries to twitch away. "I thought you weren't going to . . ."

He catches her by the waist, stills her, and slides her zipper down. "I'm not. I just want to touch a little. Don't worry. It'll feel good. Better than your nipples, even."

She's still resisting, twisting even as he slides the denim down her hips. " _Don't_."

"Ellie, I ain't done nothing to hurt you. Calm down."

"But . . ."

"Settle. It's okay." Her pants are tangled around her ankles, keeping her hobbled. Her panties are simple, sensible, and made of thin white cotton. He leaves them alone for the moment, instead pulling her into an embrace and rubbing his hands gently up and down her spine. "You're okay. Jus' be a good girl for me." She relaxes a little and doesn't resist when he slides the panties down as well and rubs over her ass. She's perfectly proportioned here, too - small, but with a soft swelling that fits just right in his hands.

He pushes her back, gentle but firm. "Let me get a look at you." Her shirt has slipped down over her breasts, but he ignores it. Her thighs feel like silk under his hands. There's a tiny patch of hair between them, reddish brown and shining. He brushes over it with his index finger, but she gasps and twitches back, pressing her thighs together. He rubs his finger over the crease where leg meets torso, but she doesn't settle. "Ellie," he says steadily, "Open your legs just a little bit. I'm not gonna hurt you. I promise."

Her breath catches and she twitches back again. He sighs and looks at her. "Okay, girl, what is the fucking problem?"

She flinches. "Please don't be mad," she whispers.

He gentles his face. "I ain't. But, you need to mind me, kid. Otherwise, I might hurt you by mistake."

She swallows. "I'm trying."

He sighs. "Yeah, everybody gets nerves. It's okay." He stands up and takes her in his arms. "C'mere. Bend over the arm of the couch." Positioning her beside the sofa, he stands behind her and bends her in half, pressing her chest down until it's flat against the cushions where he was just sitting and a little lower than her ass, propped up on the arm rest. "That's it," he murmurs, stroking her back, "There you go." The position forces her to bend at the hips. Even with her legs together, the pink slip of her pussy is clearly visible between them. "You're such a good girl. What a pretty picture you make."

She settles a little at the praise. He rubs a steady finger over the slick flesh of her outer lip, feeling her twitch. "I'm just gonna touch. You'd be beautiful laid out like this with a cock stuffed in you, but you're not ready for that today. I'm gonna play a little, just until we both feel good."

She's very slick, for a girl this age, but she's clearly got no experience. From the way she gasps and curses at Joel's light touch, he suspects she might not have even done this with her own fingers. He finds her clit and circles gently until she's whimpering and writhing. "That's it. Feels good, don' it?"

He touches her slit and rubs lightly for a moment before pushing in. His hands are huge in comparison to her, but she's just as slick within and he slides easily. She cries out and struggles a little. He presses down on the small of her back. "Easy! Easy. You're okay. It's just a finger. Nothing to get worked up about." She stops fighting after a moment. He rubs her back while keeping his other hand still. "What's wrong? Did that hurt?"

She's panting, but she shakes her head a little. "I thought you meant . . . I didn't think . . ."

"Took you by surprise?"

"Yeah, I mean . . . yeah."

His thumb rubs circles into the small of her back. "Well, it's not gonna go any further, okay? No more than one finger. So, just try and relax for me, now."

She nods just a little. He rocks his finger very gently in and out. "You ever done this yourself?"

"None of your goddamn business!"

He laughs softly. "Easy, sweetheart, I'm just askin'. If you've never had anything up here before, then I'm gonna have to be a lot more careful."

She's silent for a moment. "It's not the same," she whispers at last.

One of her hands is pressed against the couch cushions. Joel slides his hand over it and interlaces their fingers, marveling at the size difference. "I'm sure." He crooks the first finger of his other hand, gently stroking her inner walls. They give around him - stiff at first, but quickly relaxing. "All the same, you're doing so well for me. Just opening up so nice. Hold still for me, sweetheart. I'm gonna make you feel so good."

He thumbs her clit carefully, in time with slow thrusts. Her breathing picks up and she starts letting out little whimpers and moans that don't sound like objections. "That's it . . ." he tells her as he slides through the slick, "Bein' such a good girl. I'm gonna make you come for me, okay?"

She squirms. "You mean, like, orgasm?"

He smiles. "If you wanna use the dumb, unsexy technical term for it . . . yeah."

She grunts. "Fuck . . . _fuck_. . ."

"It's okay. Nothing to be scared of. Just let yourself go . . . That's it, baby doll . . ."

She lets out a sudden cry that's almost a scream and her walls twitch and flutter around him. He pumps a couple more times, then pulls out before she can get overwhelmed. "There . . . there you go . . . what a good girl you are for me . . ." He gives her slit one last gentle stroke, then pulls away.

Her head starts to turn at the sound of his zipper, but he catches her neck and stops her. "Hold still just another minute, darling. Don't turn unless you want an eye full." She's shaking a little, though whether from fear or the after effects of her orgasm, he's not sure. Doesn't matter, anyway. She's got nothing to be scared of. He takes his cock in hand and strips it, groaning at the feel of her slick on his hand. He steps close but is careful not to let his cock or balls touch her. One hand pins her at the small of her back while the other strokes himself, long and slow. It doesn't take long. He's been painfully hard almost from the minute he slid his hand under her shirt. He stares down at the curve of her shoulders and imagines what it would be like to take her - to feel her squirm and hear her whimper and whine and cuss like a sailor while he pushes his dick into her . . .

He comes with a growl and paints white streaks across her tailbone. It takes her by surprise, drawing a gasp. "Easy," he says before she can get too worked up about it, "You're okay. Jus' let me get you cleaned up a little bit." It takes a moment to wipe the cum from her back with a rag and zip himself back into his pants. He helps her straighten up after. "There you go. Good as new."

Her face is red and she's panting as she tugs her shirt down and her jeans up. She looks at him like she doesn't quite know what to think. He claps her shoulder. "You did good, kid. Now, get some rest. Tonight's gonna be rough." He sits down on the couch, then stretches out, feeling the weight of everything lift just a little.

She's staring at him and rubbing her arm again. "Joel . . ."

He looks up, no longer fighting against resentment. "What?"

Her breath catches and she shakes her head. "Nothing."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE COLD SHOWER:
> 
> Yikes, so much to unpack here. So, Joel is using a ton of classic grooming/abusive behaviors to get Ellie to do what he wants. Specifically:
> 
> -Threats of violence and implying that her cooperation can prevent further violence.
> 
> -Suggesting that her only other family/support person (Marlene) is aware and supportive of his actions.
> 
> -Positioning himself as her protector.
> 
> -Progressive transgression of her physical boundaries.
> 
> -Linking sexual gratification with said transgression of boundaries.
> 
> -Identifying and exploiting her "praise kink" (which is actually a psychological need for validation and support).
> 
> -Gaslighting her when her reactions aren't what he wants ("I ain't done nothing to hurt you.")
> 
> Some of these he's aware of and some he's not. He justifies a lot of it to himself as him balancing his "need" for gratification with his genuine desire not to cause unnecessary harm. Basically, she was right to try to stab him.


	2. Quid Pro Quo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Tess dead and the Fireflies gone, Joel is the only person left for Ellie to turn to. She makes a decision before Joel can make it for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, do not read if you are not comfortable with explicit, non-consensual underage content, or if reading it would be unhealthy for you. Specific warnings in this chapter for a PTSD flashback. The flashback is not sexual, but the scene it occurs in is.

After they escape from the subway, Joel doesn't say a word to Ellie for hours - just walks in silence down the broken asphalt of abandoned highways and the scraping gravel of anonymous back roads. Ellie hurries along behind him, trotting sometimes when his long stride makes it hard to keep up, wondering how the hell she ended up in this situation. Tess dead. The Firefly escort crew dead. Marlene god-knows-where. And no one she could even think about counting on besides Joel who was . . . well. This is crazy. It's crazy to think she can go all the way across the country with this man when she doesn't even want to spend five minutes with him. She should just tell him to take her back. He's not exactly fond of her either, and he certainly doesn't want to ditch his whole life just to spend weeks or months ferrying her out west. She should just ask to go back and find Marlene. He can probably be convinced that Marlene would still pay him off for at least trying.

She knows, though, that if she goes back, Marlene will be nowhere to be found. The Fireflies got hit too hard in Boston - they've got to pull out and regroup, and she'll have gone with them. If Ellie goes back, she'll be on her own. Maybe Joel will decide to keep her around, at least until he's gotten whatever he thinks he's owed. Maybe he'll just cut her loose on the streets, with nobody. That would be worse, she thinks. She'll even take being with him - with everything that entails - over being totally alone.

So, there's nothing behind her. That's fine - it's been that way most of her life. It doesn't matter because, for the first time, she maybe has something ahead. A mission. Her immunity. She just has to get to the Firefly lab - she owes that much to the dead back in Boston. And anything she does along the way is just . . . in service to a cause or something.

She stares at Joel's back. The rifle swings from his shoulder, bumping into his pack with every step. Though it's gotta be eighty-five degrees out, he hasn't removed or even unbuttoned his battered flannel. Sweat is collecting in the armpits, turning it a darker green. She needs to stop seeing him as an obstacle and think of him - of _what_ he is - as an opportunity. A normal smuggler probably never could have been convinced to take on a job like this - too much risk, too little reward, no reason for a common criminal to stick his neck out like that. But, Joel . . . she has something he wants. She can make this worth his while. She just needs to approach this logically and leave emotion out of it.

It's not like he even treated her badly, objectively speaking. He was . . . gentle about it. He seemed not to want to scare her more than necessary. He'd promised not to hurt her and then he didn't. And, obviously, at least a part of her had enjoyed it. He doesn't seem like a sadist. She could do a lot worse, especially now that she's out from under Marlene's protection. Girls her age put up with a lot worse all the time, and without the excuse of needing to save the world.

The sun's almost directly overhead when they reach a squat brick building that sits just off the deserted highway. There's an overgrown yard that looks like it was once intended as a park. A few rotting picnic benches sit here and there. The building itself once had glass doors, but those were shattered so long ago that only a few shards of glass are still scattered across the concrete. Ellie follows Joel into the shadow of the building. With no airflow, it's stifling. The smell of sewage wafts down hallways on either side. Right at the entrance, a couple of metal boxes about the size and shape of refrigerators sit overturned. Joel steps up to one, wedges a steel pipe under it to use as a lever, and heaves. It groans but moves, and after a moment he's able to use his foot to shove it onto its side. She's uncomfortably reminded of just how strong he is.

The front of the thing is shattered glass and there are a half dozen or so plastic bottles stuck inside. Joel uses the pipe to clear out the remaining glass, then fishes the bottles out one by one and tosses three of them to her. The word _Aquafina_ is faded but legible on the plastic label. "Drink one of those," he says without looking at her, "Save the rest. Dunno when we'll find more."

She unscrews the cap and takes a swig. _Aquafina_ turns out to be a fancy word for water.

It takes him a moment to flip the other machine. At first glance, this one looks empty. A bunch of metal spirals like slinkies sit behind the broken glass, for what purpose, Ellie's not sure. Joel pushes open a metal slot at the bottom, reaches inside, and fumbles around. He seems to be reaching for something, but can't quite get his arm to fit. At length, he straightens and looks at her. "There's a bit of food still in it. Can you get your arm through?"

She squats beside the thing and peers through the slot. Sure enough, there's a couple of brightly colored plastic wrappers sitting just on the other side of the metal flap. "Maybe?"

He kneels beside her and holds it open. "Careful of the glass."

She slides her arm in until her elbow is resting against the back of the machine. Turns her wrist and feels around . . . there. Her hand hits squashy packaging. She emerges victorious, with two packs of crackers and a soft square package labeled _Twinkies_ , which contains two little cakes.

Joel gives her a nod, nothing more. He takes one of the packages of crackers from her along with the Twinkies. He tears open the plastic, takes one of the yellow cakes, and passes the other back to her. "These things never really go bad. We might as well eat."

He stands and stalks back outside as if he can't stand another minute in her presence. Well, it's way too hot and smelly to eat in here. Ellie wanders back out as well and stares at Joel. He's sitting at one of the picnic tables, hunched over, eating mechanically.

Ellie sits on a bench and does the same, trying to work out what she's going to do. The crackers taste like cardboard, but they're more or less edible. The Twinkie is good, though a bit too phallic for her current frame of mind. She keeps watching Joel. He keeps ignoring her. She has to say something soon, or he'll just make whatever decision he feels like and she won't get any say in it. She wants to at least have a say.

She finishes her improvised lunch, carefully wipes the last of the Twinkie off her lips, and takes another swig of water. If this was a spy novel, she'd have to seduce him. She cracks a smile as she imagines that - coming up to him and rolling her hips and puffing on a cigarette and going _'come here often?'_ The absurdity of the image is only a momentary distraction. She doesn't know what she's doing and Joel's not going to take kindly to any attempts to manipulate him.

Maybe she should just confront the thing, head-on. Let him know that she understands the situation and knows where she stands - that she'll cooperate, but that she expects something from him in return. That's probably the best way to approach it. He seems like a direct kind of a person - he'll probably appreciate honesty. And it's not like she has the skill for subterfuge, anyway. She stands up and stuffs her empty food wrappers in her pocket before she can second-guess herself.

She approaches him and clears her throat. "Uh, Joel? Can we talk?"

He turns. HIs face is hard and suspicious. "What've we got to talk about?"

She holds up her hands. "None of the forbidden topics, I promise! I just . . . I want to say that I'm sorry. For lying. For not telling you about my immunity."

He sighs, looks away, and softens a little. "You had your reasons."

"Still, I should've told you. Especially when . . ."

He looks back at her and arches an eyebrow. "What's that supposed to mean? _Especially when_?"

She swallows. This feels a little suicidal, but he's going to figure it out sooner or later, and he'll be madder if she doesn't come clean. "I . . . I don't know how the immunity works. Marlene thinks I'm probably carrying a strain of Cordyceps, but I don't know if I can spread it. I . . . I thought I might end up infecting you. When . . . y'know."

It's clear that this is the first it's occurred to him. Emotion momentarily falls away from his face and he looks away, his lips pursed thoughtfully. "You didn't," he says at last, "I'd have a fever by now."

"Yeah. And, I'm glad, but . . . I didn't know what would happen." She stares at her sneakers and waits for the storm.

It doesn't come. Instead, he studies her for long moments, then reaches out and grabs her hand. His face is twisted with loathing, but neither his voice nor his words match that. "I'm . . . I'm sorry, Ellie. I didn't mean to hurt you."

She looks up at him, too startled even to pull away. That's clearly hatred and disgust in his face, but she realizes abruptly that it's not directed at her. "You didn't," she says finally. It's all she can think to say.

"If I scared you so much that you wanted me dead, then I hurt you," he answers flatly.

There's nothing to say to that. After a moment, he releases her hand and she scuffs her toe in the dirt, trying to focus on why she's here. "It . . . it took me by surprise, is all. I wasn't expecting it." She lifts her gaze and looks at him directly. "And, I want you to know that I _get it_."

"Get what?"

"You're giving up a lot to take me to the Fireflies - a lot more than you thought you would when you took this job. And _maybe_ they can still pay you at the end, maybe not, but . . . I've gotta give you something, too."

"What are you saying, girl?"

She takes a deep breath and gathers her composure. "Just that I'm okay with it. Whatever . . . whatever you want to do with me, you can. What you say goes, right?"

His eyes close. His face seems pained. He lifts two fingers to pinch at the furrow of his brow. "You're . . . you're a good kid, Ellie."

She has no idea what that's supposed to mean, so she just waits.

He pats the bench beside him. "Sit down. We oughta . . . we oughta talk about some ground rules."

Her mouth is dry, which makes no sense because this is all going as well as she had any right to expect. All the same, she has to say goodbye to that brief and fleeting hope that maybe she's read him wrong - that maybe it was a one-time thing or a weird attempt to teach her a lesson or . . . something other than what it was. She sits.

He's staring at his knees. "There's a couple things I need you to know right off the bat," he says quietly, "The first is . . . that I wish I was different. I oughta just take you to the Fireflies because it's the right thing to do or because Tess asked, and I oughta leave you alone in the meantime. But, I am what I am, and I don't think there's any changing that."

He sighs and leans back against the table, still not looking at her. "Yeah. I'm gonna let you pay your way. It jus' makes sense given the distance we gotta cover and how much time we're gonna be spending together. I've got . . . certain needs, an' I can't be leaving you on your own a couple times a week while I go find a trade girl.

"But," he looks at her at last, "I'm not looking to hurt you. That ain't me." He hesitates. "You . . . you got any experience with this kind of thing?"

She bites her lip, but there's no point in being anything but honest. She shakes her head. "Um . . . it's safe to say that last night was the most action I've seen since . . . well, ever."

"That's okay. I can . . . ease you into it, at least. So it's not so scary. We can work our way up to the big stuff."

She tries not to think too hard about that particular statement, but it occurs to her that certain practicalities will have to be addressed. "Um . . . I guess in the interest of full disclosure, I should mention . . . my periods started about a year ago. So, we're gonna have to figure out a way around that, or things could get complicated."

"You don't have to worry about that. I've had a vasectomy."

"A what?"

"It's a surgery to keep me from having any . . . to keep me from having kids. An' I keep myself clean and get tested regularly, so you don't have to worry about that either. But, that brings me to my next point. Which is exclusivity. As long as we're runnin' together, there's no one else for either of us. I'm not gonna go out chasing tail and expose you. And I'm not gonna whore you out - I'm never gonna do that. And I expect the same consideration from you. Someone catches your eye on the road, even if it's another kid, you turn away."

She wrinkles her nose. "That's not gonna be a problem."

"We'll see." He looks at her, then turns away to study his hands for another minute. "There's one more thing you need to understand, and that's about communication. Now . . . you might've noticed I'm not one to talk about my feelings. That ain't gonna change, but I need you to talk to me. If you're scared or hurtin' or just confused, I need to know so I can do something about it."

She just nods. It's more consideration than she expected. Well, consideration disguised as obligation, but all the same. She searches for a way to break the tension. She glances at him and half-smiles. "Well, I guess it'd be silly to suggest that we shake on it?"

His breath huffs out and his hand closes over hers, lacing their fingers together. Gently, he lifts her hand and kisses her knuckles. He's watching her, looking for consent. She meets his gaze and nods slightly. Leaning in, he kisses her shoulder, then her neck. One arm wraps around her shoulders while the other draws her hand toward his lap and the growing bulge there. She touches briefly, over the denim, then pulls away. He catches her hand in both of his. He doesn't yank it back, but just holds it there, not letting her retreat. "It's okay," he says quietly, "You've got nothing to be scared of." He pauses and his touch softens. "Whenever you're ready."

She draws a quick, steadying breath and _makes_ herself ready. He groans as she presses down on the bulge with the heel of her hand. "That's it. You're okay." He pops the button on his jeans and slides the zipper down. "Go on, sweetheart. Pull it out."

She bites her lip and pushes her hand between the teeth of the zipper before she can talk herself out of it. It takes a bit of fumbling to find the slit in his boxers. He waits patiently through that, but when her hand finally closes on what she's pretty sure is his dick, he closes his eyes and groans. She hesitates, but he just nods. "Go on, then."

She pulls it out and forces herself to look at it. Every time she's seen a dick - whether it's kids her age fucking with her or anatomy books or the creased pages of the couple of skin mags that got passed around school over and over - it's always looked a little weird to her, and Joel's is no different. It's flushed red and stiffening rapidly in her hand. The skin is strangely soft and disconcertingly warm. She looks away.

He snorts softly. "You look like you've seen a ghost, girl."

She feels her ears redden. She scowls but doesn't look up at him. "Don't be an ass."

He actually laughs at that. "Sorry." His hand brushes over her hair. It's gentle, but it feels possessive in a way that sets her teeth on edge. "Be a good girl for me and just stroke it." He closes his hand over hers and moves it slowly, up and down. He's basically jerking himself, just with her hand, but he groans. "That's it . . . good girl . . . just like that . . ."

It's not that bad. It's objectively silly to be nervous about something like this. People do this all the time, and it's not like it'll hurt her hand. She needs to make this good for him. She wants to. She squeezes ever so slightly, drawing another groan from him. "There you go . . . see, baby doll, it's nothing to be scared of . . . you're doin' just fine . . ."

His hand loosens over hers, then retreats until it's just lightly resting on her wrist, directing her. She's doing all the work. "All the way, from root to tip . . . yeah, just like that . . . give it a little twist at the top . . ."

She focuses on the mechanics of it, like it's a puzzle she can break down and solve. She carefully _doesn't_ think about what it means. His breaths are coming faster and his hips are moving - tiny thrusts into her hand. "Bein' so good for me . . ."

When his dick suddenly twitches and spurts, it takes her by surprise, but not him. He angles it so that the cum splats to the ground rather than getting on either of their clothes. She freezes but doesn't pull back. After a moment, he nudges her hand away so that he can clean himself up and tuck himself away. "Good job, Ellie. You're doing fine."

He stands and steps around to the head of the table. "C'mere," he says, patting the weathered pine surface, "You were so good for me . . . I want to make you feel good too."

Ellie feels like stopping would be a better reward, but she obeys and lets him lift her to sit on top of the table. His hands go immediately to the fly of her jeans. "Lean back . . . there you go . . ." She lies back and lifts her hips so he can ease the pants down. Like the first time, he doesn't pull them all the way off but lets them settle between her knees. Unlike the first time, he takes her panties with them.

"Easy, now . . ."

Very gently, he nudges her legs open. She takes a deep breath and lets him do it. He licks two fingers and brings them to her slit. She's a little slick already. That's gotta be just nature, she decides. Animal instinct. "Easy, baby doll, I'm not gonna hurt you . . . I'm just gonna touch . . . you feel so good . . ." He rubs along the outside of her pussy, then slides his fingers up to circle her clit in a way that seems practiced. That almost certainly is practiced. She wonders just how many girls he's had like this and whether they were all . . . young. "That's it, settle in. You're gettin' slick for me. I'm gonna put a finger in. Just relax and tell me if it stings, okay?"

She nods. It doesn't hurt when he slides one finger in - it's just overwhelming and so different from the few times she's touched herself there. "There you go . . . good girl . . ." He rubs her clit while thrusting shallowly. She closes her eyes as her body remembers that, yeah, this feels good.

He shifts his weight until he's on the table too, kneeling over her with one hand supporting his weight and the other still moving between her legs. "That's my good girl . . ."

It all changes in the space of a blink. He leans toward her and suddenly it's not _him_ anymore. Her whole body tenses as she smells the fetid breath of a runner, hears its jaws click, feels its arms clawing at her. Pain explodes anew from her forearm. "No," she says softly, "No, fuck, no."

She can't hold still any longer. She shoves up at it - at _him_ \- with both hands and scrambles backward, her ass catching on the rough wooden surface. He lets her go, his finger popping out of her almost painfully but she doesn't notice. She's tight with panic and her heart's beating so fast she feels nauseous.

"Ellie. Ellie! What's wrong, girl?"

His voice snaps her out of the flashback. She comes to clutching her arm. After a half second, a new kind of fear grips her. "I'm sorry! Fuck, that came out of nowhere . . . I didn't mean to do that, I don't know what happened!"

His face isn't angry. He holds out his hands, placating. "Settle down. You've got nothing to be sorry for. Now, can you tell me what went wrong?"

She shakes her head. "Bad memories, is all. Nothing to do with you. Nothing to do with _sex_ , even."

"Jus' tell me."

She shakes her head.

"Ellie, if I don't know what brought this on, I might trigger it again."

"I'm fine," she snaps, "And we keep our histories to ourselves, right?"

He pauses a moment, then slowly nods. "Okay. Take a minute. Calm down."

She looks away and forces herself to let go of her forearm. Her hands come down to twine and twist over her thighs.

Joel sits on the bench, his movements slow, like he's trying not to startle a wild animal. "When you're ready, come sit here." He pats his lap.

She takes a shaky breath. "Joel . . ."

"When you're ready. It's like falling off a horse. If you don't get back on, you'll just be more scared the next time."

She swallows, as irritation starts to crowd out fear. "And, I take it the horse is your dick in this scenario?"

He smiles but holds his hands out. "No more of that today. I just want to make you feel good. Once you've calmed down."

She takes a few minutes and a few breaths. He doesn't want to hurt her - she's pretty sure of that. She can do this.

She stands before she can talk herself out of it, shuffles over to him, and lets him lower her onto his lap. She's bare-assed against his groin, but he doesn't seem to be . . . reacting to it. She wiggles a little, just to check, and he catches her. "Don't worry. At my age, it takes longer than that for me to get worked up again." He gently draws her back against his chest. The touch isn't sexual at first; he's just holding her and rubbing up and down her biceps. "You're okay, Ellie. You're safe. I'm not gonna hurt you . . ."

Her breathing slowly evens out. She lets herself relax against him. He feels the change and brings one hand up to brush lightly over her breasts, through the thin shirt. "You're okay, sweetheart." He nudges her thighs apart and lets his fingers rest in the little patch of hair above them. "I'm just gonna touch. Not gonna go inside at all. You feel the fear coming back, you tell me, okay?"

She nods and closes her eyes.

His fingers are very careful. They're so thick and callused that she wouldn't expect them to be able to move like that. Delicately. He parts her outer lips with his middle finger, collects some of the residual slickness, and brings it to her clit. "It's okay . . ." He rubs very lightly. Teases, almost. The quick little strokes vary in position and intensity, keeping her off balance. Despite everything, Ellie feels her arousal swell, feeding off of and changing the last vestiges of fear. She starts to moan and whimper, almost inaudibly.

"That's my good girl . . ." He leans forward and kisses her ear and a moment later, Ellie gasps and feels herself clench at nothing. "There you go . . ." He rubs over the slit of her pussy while her body does its best to clamp down on him. In the aftermath, her nerves feel raw and his hand on her almost stings. She grips his wrist. He seems to understand and pulls away. "You okay?"

"Yeah." Her voice comes out a little hoarse. A little shaky. He sets her on her feet and helps her tug up her jeans. He seems to shake himself. It's as if he's flipping a switch, turning back into the taciturn man she'd spent the morning dreading. 

"Drink a little more water, then we gotta hit the road. Got a long way to go yet."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE COLD SHOWER:
> 
> -"Survival sex" is the trading of sexual favors/availability for food, shelter, protection, ect. Worldwide, millions of people engage in it, particularly in high-conflict areas. Homeless teenagers are often the most vulnerable . . . and that's basically what Ellie is at this point.
> 
> -I'd give Joel a "close, but no cigar" for trying to lay out some ground rules and addressing practical concerns like pregnancy, STDs, ect. Trouble is that the power imbalance in their "relationship" is so significant that even setting boundaries can't be healthy because it's just his rules that he's imposing on her rather than something they agree to together. He knows it, too, which is why he doesn't ask for her input. 
> 
> -If you want to give Joel the benefit of the doubt, assume that he doesn't know how PTSD works. They're very lucky that he didn't make Ellie's flashback worse, either by trying to force her to talk about it or by continuing the sexual contact after it happened. He may have genuinely thought he was helping her calm down and work through her issues, but he had to know it was still a cruel thing to do.


	3. Relax

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After they both almost get shredded by the infected in Bill's town, Joel has to touch her just to remind himself that they're still alive. Ellie's pretty sure she's not supposed to like it so much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Read the warnings, read the note at the start of the first chapter, and be smart.

The rooms above the diner smell like mold and rancid fry oil. It's hard for Ellie to believe that someone's been living up here. Not that she would classify what Bill's been doing as _living_ , exactly. Following Joel's example, she pokes her nose into one of the side rooms - this one furnished with a battered wooden desk and a bare mattress - and scans it for anything useful. There's a few ounces of vodka in a flask by the door. She turns to offer it to Joel.

His hand closes over the back of her neck and squeezes tight. He's not interested in the vodka. She drops the flask and stares up into his face, trying not to show fear. His lips part, but it does nothing to soften his face. There's a . . . darkness there. An energy like a thunderstorm that's been gathering since the moment they met up with Bill. She swallows and sees him take a breath and try to discipline his face. He doesn't want her to be scared of him. She knows that much about him, at least.

"You two assholes gonna take all day . . ."

That's Bill's voice, but he trails off when he sees them. Joel draws another quick breath and glances at him. "Sorry. We gotta go now, or have we got a little bit of time?"

Bill's jaw works as he looks from Joel to Ellie. He doesn't like her, she knows. She wonders if that makes any difference in the decision he makes. She's still not sure if she wants him to intervene or not. "We can spare a half an hour," Bill says finally.

Joel nods. "Then if you don't mind . . . ?"

"Give you a little privacy? God knows I don't want to witness this." He hesitates. "My house, my rules, though. Joel, if I hear screaming, I'm coming in shootin'. I don't care how much I owe you."

Joel's face hardens. "The fuck do you take me for?"

"I'm sure I don't know." Bill gives Ellie one last, regretful look, then closes the door behind them.

Ellie draws a breath and tries to act normal. "So, I guess it's safe to say he knows about us."

Joel merely grunts. "Drop your pack. Take your shoes off." He's wearing the same intent, frightening expression that he wore while tearing through packs of runners and FEDRA squads at the museum. It's a lot more disturbing when it's directed at her. Ellie hurries to obey.

"What is it?" she asks as she kicks her sneakers off, "You pissed that I hit him? Because he was being a total _dick,_ and . . ."

"Shut up, Ellie," he says shortly, and then his hands are on her. It doesn't even occur to her to resist as he yanks her shirt up and over her head. His arms lock around her hips for a moment, then he fumbles with the fastenings to her jeans and pushes them down along with her underwear. She tries to take a step back, more on reflex than anything else, but she's tripped by the denim around her ankles and ends up falling to the ground, the old floorboards smacking hard against her bare ass.

Joel kneels beside her, his hard expression morphing into something like an apology. He doesn't speak, though. All he does is tug her jeans from her ankles, leaving her completely naked before him for the first time. He picks her up, demonstrating that careless strength of his, and deposits her on her behind atop the desk. Only then does he finally pause. His breath is coming ragged, like he's just been in a fight, and his fingers are trailing up her bare body, shaking a little. He pauses with his thumb brushing lightly over a rising bruise on her ribs. She doesn't remember how that happened - there've been so many jarring hits over the past couple of hours that they're all blurring together. 

"I'm okay," she whispers.

He doesn't answer. His hand skims up her left arm, toward a bleeding wound on her bicep. She twitches away just in time. "Don't." He freezes and she shields it with her other hand. "Clicker bite," she explains. This wound, at least, echoes clearly in her memory. She was on top of the fridge, sawing at the damn rope when the clicker grabbed her and yanked her arm in. She'd thought she was a goner until its head exploded from Joel's revolver before it could do more than graze her with its teeth. It should've still been a death sentence, but it wasn't.

He stays silent, but releases her and turns. She stays where he put her and watches while he retrieves the dropped flask as well as a couple of mostly-clean rags from his pack. He returns to her and takes her elbow in his hand. "Keep still," he says, his voice still rough as he lifts an alcohol-soaked rag to her wound. She gasps but tries not to flinch away as he sponges the wound, careful not to touch it himself. Once it's as clean as it'll get, she holds her arm out so that he can wrap the other rag around it as a bandage.

"I'm okay," she says again.

He looks up at her and takes a slow breath. He leans his head into her and kisses her shoulder. Then lifts her right forearm and presses a kiss to the disgusting, cyst-covered skin there. He sighs and speaks at last. "Twenty different times, I thought I'd lost you."

She closes her eyes, remembering the increasingly-desperate crack of his revolver, the chaos of bodies dropping around her, sometimes even on top of her, and somehow the bullets never clipped her. "We did okay," she says. She hesitantly touches his head and twines her fingers in his hair. "We're _fine._ "

Joel swallows and wraps his arms around her. She lets her knees fall open around him and tries not to react to the touch of denim and flannel pressing against her bare skin. His hands stroke up and down her back, pressing hard against the vertebrae. She can't even say whether this is sexual or not. He just seems desperate.

"Are _you_ okay?" she asks at last.

She feels his mouth twitch against her shoulder. "I'm fine."

She's suddenly desperate for this to segue back into something as comparatively simple as sex. "So?" she says in a gently teasing tone, "Did you get me naked just because you like the ambiance, or . . . ?"

He snorts softly against her. His hands slide up her back. He presses a kiss to her neck, then leans back. "We've got a little bit of time. Figured we could do some training." His hands come up to his own collar and he starts unbuttoning his shirt. Ellie presses her lips together. The previous two times they've . . . played, he's never shown any of his own skin. She keeps stealing glances at him, then away. His chest looks like she'd imagined it would - some dark hair, wiry muscle, scars here and there. He shoves his jeans down, too, and toes out of his boots, and Ellie wasn't expecting that rapid of an escalation. She looks away.

He takes her chin and gently kisses her forehead, and somehow that makes it okay. His arms slide around her and pull her into him, and she gasps at the touch of skin against hers. He just holds her for a moment, his hands stroking from the base of her neck to the swell of her ass. At length, he leans back. "It's okay, baby doll. Go lie down on that mattress. We're jus' gonna . . . practice a little."

She's not sure she likes the sound of that, but when he steps back, she obeys by climbing shakily to her feet. The mattress smells musty and the lone blanket is crusted with something foul. She kicks it away but lowers herself to lie on the creaky bedsprings, her eyes on Joel. He holds her gaze while he drops his boxers. He's half-hard already and not at all ashamed about it. She swallows but nods at him.

He approaches the bed, kneels, and swings a leg over her, easy as mounting a horse. His arms bracket her face, but his eyes are closed as he slowly brings their foreheads together. He takes a shuddering breath and releases it. Something like peace washes over his face. Ellie tries not to squirm under him. He was like that the first time, too, she realizes. Once she gave her consent and he knew she was a sure thing, his whole demeanor changed and a softness came over him. That gentle expression is the only reason she's spent the past twenty-four hours trying to trust him.

The fingers of one of his hands trace up and down her ribs for a moment before sliding up and squeezing her breast. There's a familiarity to that touch already - a sense of casual possessiveness. He opens his eyes to watch as his thumb rubs circles into her nipple. "I want you to get used to bein' under me," he says in a soft, matter-of-fact tone, "That way, it won't be scary."

Won't be scary when he fucks her, is what he means. Ellie's heart thuds a little faster. She still feels a little sick at the possibility, but it doesn't sound like it's on the agenda for today. He pinches her nipple a little more sharply, drawing her back to the present. "Easy, girl. It'll feel good." Both hands skim over her breasts very gently, perhaps in apology for the pinch. He supports himself on his elbows but lets his hips bracket Ellie's. She's pinned under the weight of his pelvis but not quite crushed. His erection presses into her lower abdomen.

"Go on, try and push me off."

She looks up at him and blinks in confusion. His face is still steady but soft. "You've gotta see for yourself."

She puts her hands on his shoulders and pushes, first hesitantly, then with her full strength. It's like trying to push a concrete wall. Next, she tries shoving out at his arms, also to no effect. She has a little bit of success when she puts the heel of her hand under his chin and pushes up. She's able to bend his head back and twist it around a little, but his shoulders never move, and after a moment, he bats her hand away. During combat drills at school, they used to teach grappling moves that leveraged the hips to escape being pinned. She tries one now, but all it still ends with her flat on her back, his hips unmoving over her, only now he's kneeling _between_ her spread legs. 

She's panting. "I get the picture, okay?"

He strokes over her cheek. His hands and his voice are still gentle. "You're not gonna be able to escape me physically. So, I want you to focus on relaxing when I've got you like this. Remember that you're safe an' that I'm not gonna hurt you on purpose."

She swallows. "Message received."

"Good." He strokes down the outside of her leg. "Now, press your legs together, sweetheart." She blinks, confused, but obeys. He shifts his own legs to make room and ends up straddling her again. He takes his cock in hand. "I'm just gonna fuck between your thighs and against the outside of your pussy. I'm not gonna go inside. You just relax and be a good girl for me."

"Okay." Her voice sounds breathy, even to her own ears.

He guides himself to the little triangle-shaped meeting of her thighs and pushes in slowly. Ellie can't help but gasp as the hard flesh presses first against her mound, then her clit, then brushes along her rapidly slickening cunt. It feels different than his fingers. Less delicate, but more natural, somehow. The skin feels almost silky, like it's made to touch her there.

It doesn't really change the deep sense of wrongness about the whole thing.

"Easy," he's murmuring, "Just hold still for me. That's a good girl."

She puts her hands on his shoulders and just hangs on. They're not quite face-to-face anymore. He's too tall for that, and she's too small in comparison. Her head ends up at about the level of his clavicles. He bends his neck and tucks his cheek against her forehead. The tender gesture seems all out of place with the situation - the dirty mattress, the air smelling of refuse, his hips ruthlessly pinning hers. All the same, it grounds her. He's not going to hurt her. He's been keeping her safe. So many times she should have died over the past day, and he hasn't let her. He won't let her get hurt.

Her skin is tugging at his cock as he pulls back. He pauses for a moment and slips his fingers between her legs, collects some of the slick, and spreads it over the inside of her thighs. When he pushes back in, his cock slides easily and she gasps. It feels . . . weird. Tingly and overwhelming and good and bad all at once. She tries to focus on the good. She's getting slicker.

"That's it, sweetheart. Just let it happen. Feels good, don't it?"

She swallows and nods. It's not quite a lie and it's not quite the truth.

He strokes over her hair. "I ain't gonna fuck you today. Or tomorrow, or probably any time soon. We got some training to do first. But, when I do . . . it's gonna feel good. An' you just need to relax and let it happen." He thrusts a little harder and the pressure against her clit draws a cry from her. "Good girl. Just like that. You're takin' it so well."

She closes her eyes. She knows she's being conditioned to more than just his touch. The more he talks about fucking her - the more he talks like he's already doing it - the more it sinks into her mind until it almost seems normal. She's okay with it. She can _be_ okay with it. His hips are moving against her, a weight that's not quite crushing. His hands are skimming over her skin and gently massaging her breasts. "Such a good girl . . ."

He's thrusting faster now and letting out wordless grunts and groans. He clearly doesn't care if Bill can hear. It feels . . . mostly good. Ellie's hips are twitching and rocking in time with him, seemingly without her consent. Animal instinct. She tries to let her brain detach a little bit so her body can just chase the sensation.

"There you go, baby doll . . . _fuck_ , you're bein' so good for me . . ." His voice trails off into an even louder groan, and then she feels a warm wetness on her thighs that didn't come from her. His thrusting slows, then stops. "Such a good girl for me . . ." She pants and holds back a whine, barely. He's done, but she . . . she still wants. When did she even _start_ to want? He pulls back, and she can't quite suppress a frustrated groan. He smiles. "Don't worry, darling, I'm not gonna leave you hanging." He props his hip on the mattress and uses one hand to gently nudge her thighs apart. "I'm gonna push some of my spunk into you, okay?"

She squeezes her eyes shut and nods. Yeah. Sure. Anything.

He uses two fingers to do it, and she gasps. It's more than she's ever taken, but her body wants it so much . . . "Good girl . . . good . . . there's nothin' to be afraid of." He's crooking his fingers to stroke her inner walls. His thumb brushes her clit. "You're okay, I'm gonna take care of you . . ."

She clenches her teeth to hold back a cry. Her orgasm hits her like an ocean wave - the kind that knocks you off your feet and kicks sand into your teeth. She clamps down on Joel's fingers so hard it almost hurts.

His voice stays steady. "Easy . . . good girl . . . ride it out." His thumb pets lightly over her clitoral hood until she twitches away, oversensitive. Next comes a sharp moment of clarity and awkwardness as he tugs his fingers out of her. God, he must think she's such a slut . . .

He squeezes her hip. "I'm proud of you. You trusted me, an' didn't let yourself get too nervous."

She turns her face away, panting for breath. His voice turns concerned. "It's okay to like it. I want you to."

She doesn't respond.

"Ellie?"

"I'm okay," she says quickly, "That was just . . . intense."

"I know." He squeezes her knee. "Take a minute and pull yourself together. Then, we gotta get cleaned up and get a move on. Wasting daylight."

()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()

Joel learned a long time ago that a kid that's too quiet is either in trouble or up to no good. The highway rumbles steadily under the tires of their truck. He tilts the rearview mirror to get a look at Ellie. She was talkative earlier - chattering on about some comic book she filched from Bill - but now she's silently flipping through the pages of a very different kind of book.

"Whatcha got there?"

She smiles, nervously and a little guiltily, and holds up the magazine. The cover shows a muscle-bound man, naked except for a leather vest. "Sue me. I was curious."

Joel's brow furrows. "You know, most of that ain't accurate."

"Yeah, I figured. Still . . . I oughta know what's out there right? The sex ed in Boston was a little bit lacking."

He sighs. All she's doing is scaring herself, but it's not like he can reach back in time and swat the porn out of her hands before she sees what's in it. He pats the bench seat beside him. "C'mere." She climbs over the seat, skin mag in hand, but gives him a cautious look. "You've gotta have questions. Those kinds of things can be confusing if you don't know what you're lookin' at."

She doesn't answer right away, just turns the page and makes another failed attempt at a whistle. "Holy _fuck_."

He glances over and snorts. "That's mostly photo manipulation. Retouching and that kind of thing."

She grins, and the expression is a little bit wicked. "What's the matter, Joel? It giving you an inferiority complex?"

He rolls his eyes. "Trust me, it's not. Believe what you want, but if there were guys actually walking around with that, don't you think you would've noticed?"

She snorts. Joel figures if she can joke about it, then she must not be too traumatized. She flips to a page showing a couple. "They're both dudes, so . . . where do they . . . put it? Oh." The next page is apparently instructive. "That does _not_ seem sanitary."

"It's not."

She steals a glance at him. Her face is a little nervy again. "Are we gonna . . . ?"

"Don't hold your breath. Takes a lot of practice to do something like that without it hurting. Most women don't bother."

"Oh." She shrugs, trying to play it off as casual, as if she didn't need the reassurance. "I was just wondering." She flips the page again, turns the pages sideways, and squints.

"I take it you nicked that from Bill?"

"Yep."

"You're a little bit of a kleptomaniac, you know that?"

"A principal or two might've mentioned it." She flips the magazine closed. "So, if he keeps this kind of porn around, then Bill is . . . ?"

"Gay? Yeah."

"And him and Frank were . . ."

"Probably. But, that ain't none of my business."

"Weird," she says quietly, "It seemed like Frank _hated_ him. Do you think Bill was . . . forcing him? To be with him?"

"Doubt it. Relationships are complicated. People say shit they don't mean all the time. I never met Frank, but I've known Bill for years. He's got his quirks, but he's not the kind of guy to do something like that."

She grunts. She's got her elbow propped against the window and is resting her chin against her knuckles, watching the world go by.

Joel sighs and makes his voice very gentle. "How 'bout it? You gonna end up hating me?"

She looks over at him, apparently startled. "You're not forcing me. We've got a deal."

"I _did_ though."

"In Boston? That was . . . weird, but not a big deal. It's fine. I'm fine."

"Okay."

She's glancing at his lap and chewing on her lip. After a moment, she lays a light hand on his thigh. "You want to . . ."

He considers. Her small hand on his leg is doing good things for him, and her willingness to initiate, even more so. She's got dark circles under her eyes, though, and their conversation has clearly caused her some disquiet. She's not offering because she wants to. He takes her hand, squeezes it, and pushes it away. "I am way too tired for those kinds of shenanigans today. And you still need to get some sleep."

She nods and puts the porn down. Joel expects her to lean against the window or climb over the bench to stretch out in the back, but instead she scoots toward him. Tentatively, as if she's not sure if it's allowed, she leans her head against his shoulder and tucks her feet up beside her. Gripping the steering wheel with one hand, he wraps the other around her shoulders and shifts her so that she can rest more comfortably against him. She leans her cheek against his chest and closes her eyes.

Long after she falls asleep, Joel can't stop himself from stealing little glances down at her. It belatedly occurs to him that he's in way over his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE COLD SHOWER:
> 
> -Once again, recreating the conditions that triggered her before is a very bad idea and could have blown up in their faces.
> 
> -Yes, Ellie is still gay in this fic, and that adds another whole level of complexity to her reactions. More on this later, probably.
> 
> -Exposure to porn is one of the classic tools of a child abuser. In this situation, he didn't give her the porn, but he's definitely trying to normalize it.
> 
> -There's definite traumatic bonding going on here, making them get attached to each other very quickly. I don't think Joel's doing it intentionally - he's not rubbing his hands together going "haha, how can I brainwash this kid to be entirely dependent on me?" - but the combination of the stress of the situation, the affection he shows her, the fear he inspires, and, of course, the sexual stimulation all combine to wreck some havoc on her hormones. Her history of neglect (from an institutionalized childhood) makes her particularly vulnerable, as does the fact that she's still a kid.


	4. The Cure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ellie starts asking questions about Joel's past. A stolen moment outside of Pittsburgh leads to unexpected honesty.

Ellie's back is starting to cramp. She tries to sit up, but Joel tugs her back down. "I don't want Henry or Sam seein' us through the window."

She reluctantly lies back down beside him on the attic futon. "They've gotta be in one of those houses by now."

"And who knows when they'll come out?"

She stretches to relieve the ache, belatedly noticing how doing so presses her bare chest into him. Her head is pillowed on his arm and his other hand pets lightly and idly over her tits. This isn't how she thought this would go. She's seen the tension building in Joel all through the chaos and violence of the last two days. When they finally made it out of the sewers, he seemed desperate. She hadn't been surprised when he made an excuse to get rid of the brothers for a little while ("Let's each scavenge the houses on one side of the street. Meet back in an hour.") but she expected more urgency from him once he finally got her alone. Instead, Joel seems almost restful. He's taken both their shirts off, but now seems content just to lie with his arm around her, their bodies touching from shoulder to hip while he strokes and toys with her breasts. Even the usual dirty talk mostly hasn't been forthcoming.

She whimpers as he gently tweaks her nipple.

"Good girl."

She stares out the window at the blue sky. "How long do you think we can keep this a secret from Henry and Sam?"

He massages her other breast, a little firmer than before. "No reason to worry about that yet. We'll see what happens."

"If they stay with us, though . . . they're gonna find out."

"Well, we're definitely not telling them yet."

"It'd be simpler than sneaking around."

Joel sighs and turns toward her. "Ellie, we gotta keep this secret as much as we can. Folks will have one of two reactions when they find out I'm fucking you. They'll either think I'm a monster and try to take you away from me . . . or they'll be turned on and want me to share. Either of those sound like things that you want?"

She shakes her head. "Of course not."

"I didn't think so. Now, settle down and be still for me." He runs his knuckles lightly up and down her sternum. It almost doesn't feel sexual.

"Maybe they'll understand? Once they know us better, I mean. And, hey, they've been traveling together for a long time. Maybe they've got an arrangement, too. Like 'you scratch my back, I'll scratch yours.' Only with dicks."

Joel doesn't laugh. His face clouds a little bit. He takes Ellie by the hip and turns her onto her side, facing him. His hand slides between her legs to rub over the seam of her jeans. "I doubt it. They're brothers. It's different when it's your own blood."

"How's it different?"

"Just is. Besides, I . . . I know my own kind. And Henry ain't the type." He swings a leg over her and slowly grinds their clothed hips together. "Sweetheart. I'm proud of how well you're handling all this. And I'm glad you're startin' to relax and feel safe. But, don't get so settled that you start thinking what we have is normal."

She nods. He catches her bottom lip with his thumb and tugs it down. After a moment, he slides the digit between her teeth, strokes over her tongue and pumps it shallowly in and out. Ellie swallows. She knew a couple of girls at school who'd given blow jobs. She saw some pictures in Bill's skin mag that she definitely hopes were Photoshopped. Her brain stutters a little when she tries to apply those images to _her_. It freaks her out more than normal sex, in a way - the idea of having it . . . all up there in her face.

When he pulls away, she looks up at him and chooses her words carefully. She's not sure what's allowed, but he _did_ tell her to communicate. "Do you want me to . . ." She glances. "Because . . . I'm not sure how I feel about that."

He hesitates, then nods and rolls off of her. His hands are at his fly, unzipping. "We'll try it one of these days - you might be surprised. But, not right after I spent all night climbing through sewers." He pulls his cock out and reaches for her hand. "C'mon, sweetheart."

She closes her hand around his shaft and starts to stroke, up and down. He guides her hand for a few moments, setting a lazy tempo, then lets go. His other arm tightens around her shoulders, pulling her into his side. She picks up her head and leans it on his chest, watching what she's doing and listening to his heartbeat. She does feel safe with him. It's strange. Last week, he was pinning her down in a Boston apartment and having his way, next week he'll probably take her virginity as soon as he can find the time and privacy, but she can't find it in herself to fear him, or even be mad at him.

"That's it . . . that's my good girl . . ."

Yeah, his damn voice probably has something to do with it. She knows it's meant to manipulate, but that doesn't stop the praise and pet names from sparking a warm glow in her chest. Doesn't explain all of it, though.

He huffs a sigh, releasing tension she hadn't noticed him carrying. Her hand doesn't slow, but the next time he speaks, it's in a more normal, conversational voice. "I'm glad we happened upon those boys. It's good - you having somebody your own age to talk to."

She looks up at him but doesn't respond. Yeah, this is why. He's mostly gruff and withdrawn when he's not touching her, but the more time she spends with him, the more she sees these little flashes - these hints that he cares about her as more than just a pretty thing to fuck. She doesn't think he could fake something like that - Joel's not that good of an actor.

He seems a little awkward, suddenly. "Jus' . . . ah . . . remember what we talked about. About exclusivity."

She wrinkles her nose. "Joel, don't be gross."

He laughs and strokes her back. "Can't help it." His hand slides a little lower and he squeezes her denim-clad ass. She tightens her fingers around him a little, drawing a groan from him. "That's it . . ." His hand slides around to rub at the seam of her jeans again. She squirms, then gives up on self control and grinds against him.

"Ellie, squeeze a little."

She realizes her hand has gone mostly lax and hurries to correct it. "Sorry. You're being a little distracting."

He snorts. "Multitask, sweetheart." His thumb presses right over her clit. "Now, twist at the base."

She struggles to focus - to follow his commands even as her own arousal builds and his hand is . . . not quite enough. She's flushed and panting and squirming, but she's gratified when his voice starts to sound breathy. Before long, he can't quite keep it steady. "Just a little more . . . ah _fuck_ , good girl . . . such a good girl . . ." She's getting better at reading him. When he comes, it doesn't catch her off-guard. In the aftermath, his hand slows and he lets out a contented sigh.

She grunts and shifts her hips and eventually gives up on her pride. "Uh, a little help here?"

He smiles. "If you insist." He rolls over her and presses a kiss to her stomach. His hands _finally_ undo her jeans and push them down. He kisses her bare hip next, then gently spreads her legs.

Ellie fights against self-consciousness. "Um, I spent all night crawling through sewers too."

He looks at her from between her legs. "I'll take my chances." His beard rasps against the delicate skin of her thighs, but then his mouth is _there_ and it's wet and warm and she forgets to think for a while.

When it's over, she comes back to herself with his hand over her mouth. Her face flushes. Did she really get that loud? Joel crawls up her body and kisses her shoulder. "Good girl." He rolls to the side and stands, reaching for their clothes. "We should get a move on. Still gotta search these houses."

Ellie sits up, watching him as she catches her breath. "Have you done this before?" she asks after a moment, "Y'know . . . training? Teaching somebody who was . . ."

"A kid?" Joel tosses her shirt at her and Ellie tugs it on. His face is closed off - not relaxed like it was a moment ago. She almost wishes she'd kept silent, but she's trying to figure him out. "Once or twice," he says finally, "Not often."

She hesitates. "I kind of thought it'd be more."

He looks at her. He knows what she's asking and he seems conflicted. She sees the moment when resignation washes over his face. He sighs and sits down beside her. "In Boston, I mostly stuck to trade girls."

"Hookers."

"Yeah. Experienced, but . . . young. Made things a little less complicated that way. I didn't have to worry so much about hurting 'em. Never stuck with one for very long. They got too old pretty quick anyway."

"How old's _too_ old?"

His lip twists. "Fifteen, sometimes sixteen. When . . . when they stopped seeming like kids to me, I knew I had to move on. It's . . . a kind of sickness that I've got. Ain't nothing to be done about it."

"How do you know? That it can't be fixed, I mean? If it's a sickness, then maybe there's a cure, right?"

He shakes his head. "People used to try. Once upon a time, you could see doctors, do counseling programs . . . hell, there were probably support groups. Never seemed to stop anybody, so the feds just focused on locking people up. There used to be these registries, where if you got caught with a kid, you had to alert all your neighbors so they knew to keep theirs away from you. All a thing of the past now, of course."

She fastens her jeans and pulls on her socks, then her shoes. "Did you ever end up on one of those?"

"No." He shakes his head shortly. "I wasn't doin' any of that before the outbreak."

"What changed?"

"Lot of things." He stands abruptly, and she knows that sharing time is over. "I'll search the second floor and this one, you get the living room and kitchen. Don't forget to check all the drawers and cupboards. If you're not sure if something is useful, come get me."

She nods and reaches for her pack. He's rummaging through the drawers of a side table. After a moment, his face softens as he pulls something thin and brightly covered from its depths. He holds out the comic. _Savage Starlight._

"That's the next issue, right?"

She takes it and tucks it in her pack. "Yeah. Thanks."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE COLD SHOWER:
> 
> Not much to say here that hasn't been remarked on in previous showers. This chapter is more about how Joel sees himself, which will be important later.
> 
> -It must needs be said that his response to her suggesting they be more open with others ("people will either want to take you away from me or want me to share") is an isolating tactic and a threat.
> 
> -Yes, technically his preferences make him a hebephile, rather than a pedophile. It's a psychiatric distinction that makes no difference from a moral perspective.
> 
> -Because this is fiction, there will eventually be discussion of why Joel is the way he is and what specific issues made him turn to child sex abuse. Thus far, I've dropped a couple of hints. IRL, there are never easy answers. Ellie's belief that he can be "cured," though, is a natural thing for either a victim or a family member to think. He shuts her down because, although he feels remorse, he's not ready to think about changing.


	5. Promises at Sundown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joel knows that she's ready.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heed the warnings, yo, and read the tags. They've been updated and will continue to be updated as the story progresses.
> 
> Specific to this chapter, content warnings for graphic description of an underage girl's genitals, hymens, and so forth, under conditions of dubious consent.
> 
> As always, the end note will contain a "cold shower" wherein I discuss many of the ways that this is Problematic.

The roads out in northern Ohio used to be gravel. After two decades of rainfall and next to no maintenance, there's not much left of them but rutted tracks, but it's still easier walking than cutting across the endless fallow fields. They're getting close to the Indiana border. Last Joel heard, there were still active QZs in Chicago and Indianapolis, but out here they could almost be the last two people in the world. Around lunch time, they passed the ruins of a little no-stoplight town, apparently without a soul still calling it home. Since then, it's been nothing but a flat expanse of meadows that used to be corn fields, interrupted here and there by scraggly trees.

"Up there!" Ellie is pointing. "A silo, maybe?"

Joel tries to shade the late afternoon sun out of his eyes. The days have been getting shorter in the two weeks since they left Pittsburgh. Yeah, he sees what she means: the distant skeleton of a grain silo. Even from here, he can tell it's a ruin. "Better than nothing."

It's tough going once they leave the road. Joel walks ahead, trying to beat down and knock aside weeds and scrub brush. Behind him, Ellie stumbles in gopher holes and kicks away snakes and curses five times a minute. They push their way out of the weeds, finally, into what used to be a barnyard. The metal skin of the silo has been partly peeled away by time, leaving the bones exposed with the sun shining through. The barn itself must've caught fire at some point. It's half falling down, with blackened timbers and fallen rafters leaning precariously against each other.

"Might be something useful in there," Ellie says.

Joel shakes his head. "Too dangerous. A stiff breeze could knock that thing over." He turns his head and points. "Over there. The farmhouse."

Some fifty yards out, the house sits alone in the middle of an abandoned field. The rusted hulk of a tractor graces what was once the lawn, but there's no sign of a car. A hand-crank water pump sits desolate out front. The house itself is an eighties-style rancher with faded tan brick and battered shingles. All of the windows are shattered - no one ever bothered to board them up. When they reach the house, Joel insists on circling it, looking for any sign of human activity. There's nothing. No sign of wear on the overgrown grass. No sign of a car or motorcycle. From what they can glimpse inside, dust lies heavily on every surface. None of the furniture even looks disturbed.

Joel boosts Ellie through a broken window only for her to discover that the front door isn't even locked. She gives him plenty of shit about that, naturally. The house itself looks like it hasn't been touched in longer than twenty years. The living room furniture is a faded pink. Doilies of yellowing lace cover the end tables. Family photos - some so old that time has turned them sepia - stare down from almost every wall. The most prominent feature a graying couple, surrounded by a near-swarm of grandchildren.

Joel keeps his revolver drawn but down by his thigh. Behind him, Ellie clicks the safety off on her 9mm. Wordlessly, he points toward the kitchen, telling her to clear that portion of the house. While she does, he walks down the narrow hallway off to the side, checking room by room. It's a small house - just three bedrooms, one of which was long ago converted to an office, one bath, the living room, and a cramped eat-in kitchen. On the back porch, a collection of Wellington boots sit rotting. Dust-covered porcelain figurines stare down at him from the shelves. Nothing's been disturbed. There's no sign of a body.

He returns to the kitchen just in time to see Ellie throw open the doors of the pantry. She whistles at what she finds and turns to him with a grin on her face. "What's for dinner?"

"You pick," he tells her. They've still been using Henry's camp stove for most meals, at least when they can find propane. There's enough left to heat a few cans. On a whim, though, he fiddles with the stove and smiles when a blue flame sparks to life above the rusted burners.

"Yes!" Ellie crows, "Hot baths!"

"If you want baths, you'd better start hauling water," he tells her, "But, grab something to eat, first." She presents him with two cans of Chef Boyardee. Ravioli and SpagettiOs. "And a vegetable," he tells her tiredly.

"What happened to ' _You pick_ '?"

"Ellie . . ."

"Fine." She tosses a can of corn at him, and he decides not to press the issue.

"There's a couple buckets on the back porch. Grab ten gallons, we'll get it heating, and I'll get the rest after we eat."

She heads out toward the water pump and he fumbles through drawers and cupboards until he finds a can opener. While opening the cans, he stares out after her through the shattered front windows. She's bouncing back. She took Henry and Sam's deaths pretty hard, but over the past week or so she's seemed more like herself. Less quiet, more bubbly, more trusting. He left her alone for almost a week after Pittsburgh, figuring that she needed time and space to figure stuff out. Since then, he's been bringing her along, slow and careful, with gentle fondling and gradually escalating training. Teaching her to use her mouth was an unmitigated disaster - both times they've tried have ended with her panicking and him eventually walking away with blue balls and oceans of self-loathing - but she's gotten calmer about being touched, about using her hands, and about him thrusting between her thighs. She trusts him so much it scares him, sometimes.

She returns, lugging a five gallon metal pail with both hands. He hauls it up onto the stove and turns on a burner. He offers her a bowl from the cupboard and a spoon. The cans are bunched together on one of the burners, and they're starting to steam. "Watch those," he tells her, "They'll be done in a minute. Don't let the food burn."

While she watches their dinner, he goes out, pumps another five gallons, and brings it in to heat. By the time he has the third burner going, she's divvied up the pasta and corn. Half the contents of each can she's mixed in the bowl. He grabs the three cans with their remaining contents, fishes an extra spoon out of the drawer, and waves her over to the table.

"What do you think happened?" she asks while stirring her concoction of corn, ravioli, and SpaghettiOs, "To the people that lived here, I mean?"

"No way of knowing," he says, "Looks like they were older. Most folks headed to the nearest QZ as soon as the news reached them."

"Why, though? I mean, they had food and clean water. They could've lived here a long time."

He scoops up a bit of corn. "People mostly did what they were told, back then. If the government said to get to a quarantine zone, they had no reason to be suspicious."

"It's crazy to think that nobody ever raided this place," she says in between bites.

"Not many people out here to begin with. It all just got . . . forgotten." He scrapes the last bit of food out of one can. Spaghetti-Os taste the same as they did twenty years ago. The pails on the stove are starting to steam and bubble. "Bathroom is the first door on your left down the hallway. Careful you don't burn yourself."

Leaving the empty cans and Ellie, still picking at her bowl, he grabs a couple more buckets from the back porch and pumps another ten gallons from the rusted pump. The lone bathroom features a claw foot tub. He shoves the stopper in, upends both buckets, and takes two more from Ellie as she totters in with the steaming pails. Once the bathwater is hot but not scalding, he turns to Ellie. "You take the first bath. We'll talk after."

She hesitates. That reference to _talk_ is the first sign that this is not a normal night. All the same, she keeps quiet and nods. While she bathes, Joel wanders from room to room, taking it in as more than just a fortified location. He's relieved not to find a child's room. The second bedroom is clearly a guest room, with a faded quilt and worn, generic furniture. The master bedroom is slightly larger and features a queen-sized bed and a white cotton comforter. 

Joel stares, for a moment, at the closed bathroom door. He knows what he wants - what he's wanted for a while - and fate isn't likely to give him a better opportunity. Ellie's cleaned up, well-fed, and as healed as he can hope for her to be from the shit that went down in Pittsburgh. She's tired - they both are - and he almost wants to wait until morning, but if he does, she'll want to know why they're wasting time when they could be on the road. She's relentless about getting where they're going and resists every suggestion that they rest for a day or even an hour.

The mattress doesn't smell, but the sheets are a bit tattered from insects. Joel strips the bed and rummages through closets until he finds one that holds linens and smells of mothballs. He picks a clean set of sheets and is shaking them out when Ellie pads out of the bathroom, wrapped in a towel. "Water's a little grimy. Sorry."

"It's fine." He waves her over. "Help me make up this bed."

She takes one end of the fitted sheet and wrestles it over the corners of the mattress. While they tuck in the top sheet, though, she cocks an eyebrow at him. "Since when do you get finicky about clean sheets?"

He shrugs. "Not often we find a place like this." He looks at her. "When we do, we oughta take advantage."

She sees the meaning in his eyes. Her breath catches. "Oh. You're talking about . . ."

"Ellie." He steps around the bed and lays a hand on her shoulder. "You're ready. You know it and I know it. Now, I'm gonna go get cleaned up. Don't be nervous. I'm gonna take care of you."

She swallows, but nods, so he leaves it at that for the moment.

Under a thin layer of suds, the bathwater is a bit gray and barely lukewarm, but it's way too much effort to draw and heat more. Joel scrubs himself quickly and efficiently, trying not to think about the coming night. He doesn't want to get too worked up yet - not when Ellie's gonna need him to go slow and careful. The cooling water helps in that regard. He dries himself thoroughly, after, and wraps the towel around his waist.

He finds Ellie in the bedroom, standing in front of the dresser and staring into a dusty mirror. She's changed into one of his tee shirts - it falls to the tops of her thighs - and she's trying to drag a brush through her damp hair. Joel comes up behind her without speaking, takes the brush, and carefully unknots the red-brown locks until they hang, straight and shining, on her shoulders. Memory hits him - the memory of blonde hair that was a little thinner than this but always seemed to get tangled at the drop of a hat . . . He shoves the memory away, hard, because that's got nothing to do with this.

To prove it to himself, he steps a little closer and wraps an arm around her shoulders while tracing his other hand down her body. The touch of her skin chases the ghosts away. It always does. To make sure they stay gone, he studies her in the mirror - her freckle-dusted face, the curves of her breasts, barely concealed by the thin cotton tee-shirt. He runs his thumb up her hip, pulling the shirt up. She didn't bother with panties.

"Good girl."

Little fine tremors are working their way up her body. Just nerves, he's pretty sure. Not much to be done about it. He tugs the tee-shirt up and over her head. She doesn't resist, but when her hands come back down, she grips the edge of the dresser. Joel tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "You okay?"

She swallows, but nods. He runs four fingers down her sternum. "Lean back against me. I want to get a good look at you." 

No matter how many times he touches her, her bare skin always sends a shock through him. Joel massages her shoulder for a minute, trying to soothe away some of the tension. He's not really hard yet, and she can feel that through the towel. It seems to settle her a little. He watches, marveling at how small she is in comparison, as his hands slowly trace over her stomach and up to her breasts. He thumbs her nipple gently, in a way that he knows she likes but that hopefully won't be too intense. Her body jerks all the same.

"Easy, sweetheart," he murmurs as her breasts settle into his hands. He groans softly. "Never get tired of the feel of you . . ."

She turns her head and presses her cheek against his chest. He's not sure whether that's an attempt to feel close to him or just her avoiding her own reflection in the mirror. He cups one hand protectively around her head. His other hand, though, traces down her stomach and slides between her legs. She's mostly dry, still. He rubs gently over her clit. "It's okay, baby doll. I'm gonna take such good care of you."

She moistens a little under his fingers, but after a moment she's twisting in his arms. He lets her do it, and she presses her face into his chest and wraps her arms around him. He strokes up and down her back. After a minute, he pulls away and takes her face between his hands. "Ellie. Talk to me, sweetheart. What's got you so nervous about all this?"

She takes a shaky breath and drops her gaze. "Well," she says finally, "I'm not super-stoked about bleeding all over those nice sheets."

He strokes her cheekbone with his thumb. "Not all girls bleed the first time, and when they do, it's usually not more than a drop or two. We've been goin' slow and you've been doin' a good job of learning to open up for me. I don't think you're gonna bleed."

She's silent.

"What else?" he prompts.

"It's . . . I don't know, it's just a lot."

He sighs. Maybe he should've made a move sooner, before she could turn it all into some big thing in her head.

Maybe he shouldn't be doing this at all.

He shakes away the momentary twinge and pulls her back into an embrace that chases the ghosts away. "It's gonna feel good," he promises, hoping he won't be made a liar.

Well, the nerves won't fully disappear until he shows her that she's got nothing to be scared of. He steps back and takes her by the shoulders. "C'mon, baby doll. Why don't you come lie down for me?"

She looks very small against the white expanse of the sheets. He drops the towel and follows her, kneeling, then crawling to the middle of the bed. She's seen him naked plenty of times, and if her eyes linger a little longer than usual, that's understandable. She bites her lip. "What do I do?"

He presses her gently onto her back. "Just lie still for now and try to relax. Tell me if anything hurts." He leans over her and presses a kiss to her collarbone while gently kneading one breast. "First, I'm gonna get you all worked up. That way, you'll be nice and slick and dripping for me."

Words aside, he leaves her cunt alone for a while. Instead, he kisses and licks over her body and works her nipples with his lips and fingers until she's squirming and pressing into him. This much is familiar; they do this almost every night. Her breath is coming fast and she's starting to gasp and whimper by the time he crawls down her body to press a kiss to her hip. "There you go. Open your legs for me." She obeys with a little more hesitation than usual, but voices no complaint.

Joel supports himself on his elbows, angles her hips just so, and takes a good look at her. From her pussy, he wouldn't have guessed that she's already fourteen. The grass on the playing field is still a little sparse, but clean and shining. Her cunt itself is small and tucked back. He braces her with two hands on her thighs and parts her outer lips with his tongue. She gasps and he presses a soft kiss to the hollow where thigh meets pelvis. He keeps a good hold on her - she sometimes gets a little too excited and ends up whacking him in the face. Tonight, she's holding still, though. 

He tongues over her slit lightly, then pushes the tip of his tongue in. Her hands tighten in the sheets and she lets out a half-stifled cry. He thrusts a little, enjoying the taste of her. He can feel the thin ring right around the rim. Her hymen. It's flexible and stretchy, whether it's opening to his fingers or his tongue. Yeah, she's gonna be fine. He leaves her cunt for the moment and focuses instead on laving over her clit.

Her fingers tighten in his hair. "Joel?" She's trying to pull him off, which isn't like her. 

He leans back and looks at her. "What is it, baby doll?"

Her face is flushed, but her brow is furrowed. "If you keep that up, I'm gonna . . ."

"Come? That's okay, baby. I want you to."

"I . . . I don't know if I can keep going after. You know how I get."

Oversensitized, is what she means. Raw, almost. "You can take as much time as you need, after. There's no rush."

She swallows, but nods. He dips his head again and laps at her clit while sliding two fingers into her pussy. They've worked on getting her to come with something inside her. She's getting better at it, though she still gets nervous about more than two fingers. Joel doubts that she can come on his cock tonight, but it's good practice for the future. The sounds she's making are getting louder and more desperate. Her fingers are back in his hair, but just twining through this time. They shake a little. With his free hand, he strokes gently over her hip to settle her.

She starts to grind into him with little hitching movements. He encourages her with a soft hum and applies suction right over her clit. Her breathing turns into panting, which turns into gasping and then a half-stifled "oh, fuck, _fuck_!" and then she's pressing into him and clamping down around him, so slick she's soaking his hand. He keeps pumping and suckling through her climax. Once her cunt relaxes and her hips slowly sink back into the mattress, he pulls back and presses a kiss to her outer lips.

He eases her legs back together, climbs up her body, and collapses next to her, on his side. She's still panting and muttering the occasional curse. Her body is lax and boneless and she lets him gather her into his arms. Her forehead comes to rest just below the hollow of his throat and her breath falls soft and warm against his chest. He just holds her for a few minutes, rubbing up and down her back. He's hard, but for the moment he wants to come far less than he wants to just bask in the peace of touching her, in the reassurance of her small body and soft, unbroken skin.

"How you doin'?" he murmurs as her breathing evens out, "That feel okay?"

She half-laughs into his sternum. "Little better than okay."

He smiles and presses a kiss to the top of her head. "You're doin' so well for me."

She can probably feel his cock nudging against her leg. She twitches away from it instinctively, then catches herself, and sighs. "Sorry."

"Don't be."

"Fuck, I'm taking forever! You must be . . ."

"I'm fine. And I don't want you to rush yourself. We got plenty of time. Why don't you roll over for a couple minutes?" He guides her to turn onto her other side and rubs up and down her back for another minute, massaging. Her hair is drying, but it's getting mussed from the pillow. He pulls his fingers through it until it lies straight again, then slides a hand around her waist and just holds her for a while, waiting.

After a moment, she speaks, her voice shaking a little. "What if . . . what if it's like the blow jobs? What if I just _can't_?"

Joel presses a kiss into her shoulder. "You can."

"The other night . . . that would've been really bad if you hadn't stopped."

"That wasn't the same thing. We were just tryin' that out."

She swallows and squeezes his wrist. "If it gets bad, if I . . . can't . . . Promise you'll stop?"

He presses his hand flat against her belly. "You need to relax, sweetheart. I'm not gonna do anything you're not ready for."

"Joel. _Promise_."

He sighs. "Okay, Ellie. I promise." He traces his hand up her body and brushes his thumb against her sternum. "Cross my heart."

She snorts, but he can _feel_ her smile. "Asshole."

He leans forward, kisses her temple and looks down into her face. "You mean that?"

She closes her eyes and shakes her head.

"I didn't think so," he says gently. He wraps his arm around her waist again. "I need you to promise me something, too. Promise that you'll try. Promise that you'll trust me."

"I will. I mean, I _do_."

He leans his forehead into her hair. "Good girl. Now, take whatever time you need. You let me know when you're ready."

His hard-on is starting to wilt just a little and he's feeling the first tendrils of sleepiness when she settles her hand over his and squeezes ever so slightly. He rubs with his thumb. "Okay?"

Her breath shudders a little. "I . . . I think so?"

"Well, let's find out." He keeps his voice very steady. His hand slides down to dip between her legs, nudging them apart. She's slick, but he makes sure his touch is very light. "How's that?" He runs a finger between her lips, against her slit. "Anything hurt?" She shakes her head wordlessly. "Good. Turn over for me, baby doll."

She lets him turn her onto her back and looks up at him, eyes wide. He dips his head, kisses her breastbone, and takes her nipple gently into his mouth. Once he has it, he laves with his tongue and suckles, first lightly, then with increasing force until she lets out a little gasp and her back arches into him. He releases her nip and rubs over it with his thumb. "Good girl. Remember that it's gonna feel good." He props himself up on an elbow and a hip and runs his other hand down her body. "Now, spread your legs for me, darling." He nudges her thighs apart and rubs over her pussy with three fingers. "That's it. Feel that? You're dripping for me."

He slides two fingers in before she can get too twisted up with anxiety. She gasps, but her cunt opens around him easily. He thrusts a few times, sliding through the slick, then spends a minute scissoring his fingers at her opening, feeling the stretchy ring give. His thumb brushes her clit, making her breath catch. "What a good girl, gettin' all wet. Gonna feel so good around my cock." She doesn't flinch - not at the words and not when he slides a third finger in. She's tight, but it only takes a few moments before she's relaxing around him. "That's my girl . . . got you all ready for me . . ."

He pulls his hand out and rolls on top of her, his knees nudging her thighs a little wider. He jacks himself a few times, spreading her slick over his cock. To distract her from that, he presses their foreheads together. "You're alright, Ellie. Do you trust me?"

She nods and he kisses her forehead. One of his hands settles on her hip, angling it just so. The other guides his cock. "Just relax, baby doll . . ."

He pushes in, slow but firm, before she can think about it too much. She stretches around him . . . and stretches more. She may be slick and ready, but she feels so tight around him that it's like she's trying to pop the tip of his dick right off. For one terrible moment, Joel is worried that they're headed for a bad tear - the kind that'll keep her sore for days. Her face is pinched with pain. Her brow furrows and tightens. "Fuck . . . Joel . . . _fuck_."

"It's okay, baby," he murmurs, keeping his hips still with just the head inside her, "Relax, you're okay. Just give it a minute."

Slowly, painfully slowly, he feels her start to give around him. Her face relaxes and he feels something in him unclench as well. "Good girl," he whispers, "I'm gonna go a little deeper now, okay?" She doesn't respond, but he lets his hips hitch forward, a little at a time. She opens around him, bit by bit, making room. He groans softly at the tight heat fitting around him, just like he knew it would.

She half-stifles a whimper, and he lowers his head to kiss her brow. "You're okay, sweetheart. You're being so good for me. Just a little more . . . it's almost all the way in." He angles her hips and slides the last inch. "There you go . . . taking my whole cock . . . what a good girl . . ."

He rocks slowly with his hips, keeping his weight suspended above her. As much as he wants to feel her skin on every inch of his, he's got to be careful about not crushing her. He feels her relax a little more. "How's that, darling?" he murmurs, "Feel okay?"

She chews her lip and swallows. "Y-yeah. It's just a lot."

"Take a minute and get used to it. You're doing really well." He rocks steadily into her for a few minutes, until she's settling into the rhythm and no longer tenses up like something horrible's going to happen. His fingers trace over her skin almost reverently. On a night like tonight, they might as well be the last two people in the world. He's got her safe in his arms and opening up around him, with no space between them and nothing to fear from any ghost. He doesn't want to come because if he does, he'll have to stop. He wants to hold her like this forever.

He slides a hand down and rubs gently around where they're joined. "You feel so good . . . How are you doing? Not too sore?" She shakes her head. He runs his finger up to circle her clit instead. "I told you. You're opening up so nice on that cock. Pussy's just spreading right open. Gonna make you feel good, baby doll."

She starts to whine and gasp as he strums her clit. Her hips hitch up against him. That's the closest he'll get to permission to fuck her harder, but Joel keeps it controlled, only lengthening the strokes and force a little. "That's it . . . that's it . . . you're made for this, sweetheart . . ."

He knows he can't drag this out as long as he wants. She doesn't have the stamina for it, and if she starts drying out, he could hurt her bad. He pulls her legs up around his waist and speeds up a little more. He's close . . . so close . . . She hesitantly angles her hips and grinds back just a little, and it sends a shock like a live wire through him. "Good girl, Ellie . . . _fuck_ , so good for me . . ." He snaps in one more time and comes, hard, painting her insides white. He holds still as he spurts, until the aftershocks gradually leave him.

He bends his head and kisses her shoulder, then presses their temples together. " _God_ , you did so well for me. So proud of you, girl."

He can feel her breath against his ear. It's a little shaky. "Is it always that intense?"

He smiles. "Not always. But, first times oughta be memorable. And, besides, you're not done."

He pulls out carefully and leans his weight down beside her. His hand slides gently through the mess of cum and her own slick. "No blood. I told you, sweetheart." He slips two fingers inside. "Anything hurting?"

She shakes her head. "Just feels . . . different."

"Loose?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"That part don't last. It'll tighten up again by morning." He pulls out and strokes both fingers over her clit, rubbing his cum into her. "You were so good for me, baby doll. Relax, now. It's my turn to take care of you."

Free of the overwhelming stretch, she seems to settle in and her arousal grows. Within a minute, she's gasping and muttering curses. Joel strokes her lightly, in familiar patterns. He wraps his other arm around her shoulders and holds her close, her side plastered against his body. She's here and whole and safe and she _trusts_ him . . .

She throws her head back and cries out as she comes. It's not quite a scream, but it comes close. Joel smiles and strokes her for a moment longer, before pulling away. In the aftermath, she turns toward him, apparently needing the reassurance of his embrace. He wraps his arms around her and strokes up and down her back. "You're okay. You did good, kid." He feels her smile against his chest, and something in him relaxes. She's okay. _They're_ okay. She doesn't hate him, and he hasn't ruined her. 

He pulls the covers over them both and holds her until they both fall asleep.

()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()

Joel wakes from a dream he forgets to the feel of wetness on his face. He opens his eyes and rolls onto his back. Rain drums on the roof, and a shifting wind is starting to bring it through the broken window above the bed. The sheets and pillows are already damp.

Dawn is still hours off, but he untangles himself from Ellie and stands. She shivers at his departure, but doesn't wake. He collects the white comforter from the foot of the bed, wraps it around her, and scoops her up against his chest. She stirs a little and mumbles something incomprehensible. He kisses her forehead. "It's just a little rain, baby. Go back to sleep."

He carries her to the guest bedroom, but that bed's soaked even worse. Nothing left but the living room. He lays her down on the faded sofa and tucks the blanket more closely around her. She sleeps on, her face untroubled. That's an illusion, Joel knows.

He looks down at her and sighs. Another girl. Another notch in his bedpost. At least he didn't hurt her, so far as he can tell. He remembers when Ellie was supposed to be just a quick dalliance - just a dirty little bit of stress relief to get him through a job, and then he'd never have to see the consequences. He knew, when he took on this crazy quest, that that would change - that he wouldn't be able to keep himself from caring. He hadn't let that stop him - not from accepting her "arrangement" and not from taking everything she had to give. He might've tried harder, at least.

He shakes the thought away. He knows what lies down that path. If he'd tried harder - avoided looking at her and slept separately, and wanked off secretly and desperately while she was asleep - then the tension would've eventually made him snap. He wouldn't have been able to keep his hands off of her long term, and if he hadn't acknowledged that and eased her into it, he'd have scared her a lot worse. He'd have hurt her, probably. He's lived with this demon on his back for twenty years. It just gets hungry if he ignores it.

Her hair is slipping down into her eyes. He gently brushes it back behind her ear. At least he can watch over her - can keep her safe. At least he has something more to pay her with than a couple of shitty ration cards and a walk home. If they can get to the Fireflies - if they can be trusted to treat her decent - then she might even end up okay, some day.

With that hope held in his mind like a talisman, he grabs a faded blanket, sinks down into a creaking recliner, and prepares to wait out the night.

()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()

Ellie wakes to a distant roll of thunder. There's gray light filtering through the windows, but the rain is coming down hard. She lifts her head from . . . the couch? Weren't they in a bed? Joel lies slumped in a recliner beside her, covered with a blanket and dozing.

She's still naked under the thick comforter. There's a slickness between her legs that's somehow lingering, all these hours later. She slides her hand down and rubs the outside of her pussy with two fingers, remembering. It's a little tender, but not throbbing or anything. She slips the tip of one finger inside, just to check. It's tightened up again, like he said it would. It was silly to be nervous about that.

She gets up slowly, keeping the blanket wrapped around herself. The carpet crunches underfoot, stiffened by decades of dirt and moisture. She walks over to the window and looks out as sheets of rain drum the gently sloping farmland.

The recliner creaks. "Morning, baby doll."

She spins, a half-awkward smile tugging at her lips. "Hey."

He's sitting up, the blanket pillowing around his waist. "You okay?"

"Yeah."

He watches her for a moment, then pats his knee. "C'mere."

She goes without hesitation and curls up in his lap. His strong arms wrap around her and pull her to his chest. They sit like that for a while, watching the rain. Ellie finds that she needs this. It's reassurance that they're going to be okay. Maybe he needs it, too.

She tucks her head under his chin. With the blanket wrapped tight around her, she can almost pretend that this is normal - that she's an ordinary kid being held by her dad, or, at worst, a somewhat creepy uncle. Not that she'd know what any of that is like, of course. Still, she's seen it. Illustrations in books, the occasional movie or clip of a TV show. Back at her first school, they used to have this old projector, and once a year they'd fire it up with the generator just to play _It's a Wonderful Life._ It seemed nice.

There's no point in lying to herself. "We should hit the road," she says reluctantly.

Joel grunts. "Too risky, with that rain."

"Oh, we fight our way through clickers and gangs and now you're scared of getting wet?"

He snorts. "You know what they used to call this stretch of the country? 'Tornado Alley.' We can move on once the storm passes." She sighs, but there's no arguing with him.

His hand slides, gently, under the blanket, and the spell is broken. It's just as well. She leans back to make space for him as he runs his fingers down her body and between her legs. His hands feel so different from hers, but they touch her in just the same way - rubbing along the outside. He's just checking on her. "You sore?"

She shifts. "A little."

"That should pass in a day or so. Tell me if it doesn't." He pauses. A bit of mischief slips into his voice. "You want me to kiss it better?"

She hesitates. It's a real choice, she knows. He won't push her if she says no.

"Sure."

She sheds the blanket and stands while he sinks to his knees in front of her. Her eyes fall shut as his mouth closes over her. She wraps an arm around his head and combs her fingers through his hair. "Just until the rain stops," she says quietly, "Then we have to go."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I have defiled "Future Days" by referencing it in the chapter title of an underage dub-con Joel/Ellie story. I did that.
> 
> THE COLD SHOWER:
> 
> -I've said it before, but it really can't be overemphasized how much Ellie growing up in an institution without a consistent caregiver made her vulnerable to Joel. In particular, a lack of self-worth made her feel that she couldn't expect protection from adults without offering something in return (leading to her decision in Chapter 2) and a lack of faith in her caregivers allowed Joel to manipulate her into thinking Marlene was in on it all the way back in Chapter 1. This chapter very briefly further explored that from her perspective. 
> 
> -Joel is directly playing off of her issues by setting up a father/daughter dynamic with her, both in bed (where he decides how far they go and what she can or can't handle) and in their day-to-day lives. You can argue that he's not doing it intentionally - that he's just falling into familiar patterns - but he still does it and is aware of it, at least on some level.
> 
> -Joel's emotional repression in this fic exceeds what he's capable of in canon, which is saying something.
> 
> -Good for Ellie for sticking up for herself, but "don't hold me down and forcibly rape me" is one of those boundaries that really shouldn't need to be negotiated.
> 
> -Many child sex abusers (especially those with diagnosable pedophilia, which not all have) feel no remorse and never accept that what they're doing is wrong. Others do. Some go through cycles of molesting, feeling remorse, apologizing, honeymoon phase, and then molesting again after a period of building tensions, similar to non-sexual domestic abusers. Some are straight-up sociopaths, and some feel remorse but rationalize what they do, usually due to underlying issues. Joel mostly falls into the last category, although hardly anyone fits a particular category perfectly. Joel recognizes that it's wrong but goes through periods of denial interspersed with periods of rationalization. He *might* have a shot at changing if a good psychologist could get him to confront his issues. But, good luck finding a good psychologist in the mushroom-zombie apocalypse.


	6. What Is It About Boys?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As they grow more comfortable with each other, Joel explores a kink. In the aftermath, Ellie opens up to him, and Joel is honest, too, to a point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'know what? Screw it. I'm de-anon-ing. Sort of.
> 
> Angst and tragedy and betrayal and possibly redemption will all be coming soon to a smut-fic near you. But, first, some car-porn. As always, a "cold shower" at the end will explain all the reasons you shouldn't be okay with what Sock is okay with. Heed the tags.

Joel is looking away, trying not to roll his eyes, trying to hide a smile. Ellie catches that, and it only makes her grin widen. "And, Daniela, of course, is a total badass and has proved it in, like, _every single edition_ , but somehow everyone around her just seems to . . . forget that? Like, every episode, there's someone going 'how can you be the one to save us when you're but a lowly ship's engineer?' and it goes on like that for, like, half the issue before they admit that she can actually kick some ass. It's like they don't believe that you can _be_ a chick _and_ know science shit _and_ kick the bad guys' asses. It's like 'pick two.'"

"Well, that's pretty stupid of them."

"I know, right? So, for the whole episode, she's fighting off the bad guys, but at the same time, she's dealing with the bullshit from her own crew." She runs out of words and flips the comic shut.

His lip twitches. "Well, I'm glad you enjoyed this issue," he says finally, "Sorry about the bullshit."

"Oh, no, it's fine. Makes her story more interesting." She unzips her pack, tucks the new issue in with the rest, then leans back against the tire of the rusted station wagon. There aren't a lot of options for shelter in this part of Iowa. Tonight, home sweet home is a garage they found sitting twenty feet back from the burned-out shell of a house. Joel says there's a city called Des Moines a little ways south of here, but ever since Pittsburgh, he's been avoiding cities at all costs. It makes sense, though it makes finding food a challenge. Tonight, dinner was a couple of squirrels, with their last can of pineapple for desert.

Ellie stretches and yawns. Her neck is killing her. She tries to rub the crick out of it. All she wants is _one night_ with a pillow.

She looks up at Joel, half-wanting to ask for a massage, but his face has changed. The humor and affection is gone, replaced with something darker and more intent. He's staring at her hip, where her shirt rode up to expose a small slip of skin. Sometimes that's all it takes.

She arches an eyebrow at him. "You want . . . ?"

His eyes flick up to her face, considering. Sometimes, he tries to suppress it for a while - tries to brush it off, change the subject, and focus on other things like cleaning the guns or planning out the next day's route or even talking about comic books. That always ends the same way, though. She's not sure whether those are genuine attempts to stop himself or just a drawn out form of foreplay. Tonight, he gives in without a fight. He smiles, an attempt to make his face less dangerous that's only partly successful. "Stand up, baby doll."

She stands and he leans back against the cement wall, watching her. She still doesn't know how she feels about that hungry look he gets. He's never hurt her, and she knows she'll be on board with whatever he wants very shortly, but the first few minutes always leave her feeling a bit awkward and unsure. Scared, even. She knows that bothers him, so she tries to push that part down.

"Take your shirt off."

He likes giving her orders. Well, there are worse kinks to deal with. It's not like she knows what she's doing here, anyway. She grabs her shirt and starts to yank it up over her head, but he holds up a hand. "Slower."

So that's how he wants it, huh? She still sort of feels like a little kid playing dress up when she tries to be seductive, but if it works for him, that's fine. Hesitantly, she turns her back to him and tugs the shirt up to expose just a few inches of her back. She glances over her shoulder to judge his reaction. His eyes are dark. The hunger is growing. She pulls the shirt slowly up and over her head, then lets it flutter to the ground. She turns back toward him, covering her breasts with one arm for a moment, before she lets it drop. She should probably say something alluring, but she knows if she tries to sound sexy, she'll just sound ridiculous. She wants to crack a joke to break the tension, but he likes the tension.

He smiles a little. "Jeans and shoes, now." His voice is soft and steady. He knows this part often isn't easy for her. She kicks off her sneakers - there's no way to make _that_ look sexy, she's pretty sure - then pops the button on her jeans and slides the zipper down. Again, she turns away from him. She bends forward and tries to move her hips sinuously as she slides the denim down. Well, at least she manages not to fall over. She kicks the jeans aside and turns back, clad only in gray panties that would never have been allowed on any porno set. 

"I feel ridiculous."

"Well, you don' _look_ ridiculous."

She snorts skeptically. She hooks a thumb in the cotton waistband and looks up in question, but he shakes his head. 

"C'mere, sweetheart."

She comes to him and lets him pull her down, straddling his lap with a knee on either side. His hands settle on her, firm and warm. He strokes up and down her back for a few moments. She leans her head into his shoulder, breathing in the smell of him. He smells like leather and gun oil. There's a hint of algae, from that pond they had to cross this afternoon, and the strong tang of sweat from too many days on the road. He smells _safe_.

He tugs her hair out of its ponytail. He's been careful about that, ever since that time he snapped her last hair tie and she had to live with a rat's nest on her head for three days until he finally looted a Wal-Mart and came back with about a hundred hair ties as an apology. He runs his fingers through her hair, catching here and there on small snarls. He leans his face into her shoulder. She noses into his neck and feels him smile.

One large hand stays wrapped around her while the other dips into the space between them. He brushes very gently over her skin. Her ribs. Her breasts. Her nipples. She feels her breath catch and her hips grind down just a little on his denim-clad lap. If all of sex was like this part, she could see herself getting as addicted to it as he clearly is. Even with the awkwardness that precedes it, even with the lingering sense of something _wrong_ that never quite goes away, she _loves_ this part. These moments when he just holds her and touches her feel almost sacred. It's as though this is where they find each other.

She wishes it could all be this simple. It's not, of course.

"Good girl." His fingers trail down her spine and over the swell of her ass before settling on the back of her thigh. "You startin' to get wet for me?" She growls because she _is_ , and the fucker knows it. He snorts softly and slides a finger under her panties and between her folds. "That's my girl." She pushes back on his hand a little and his other hand tightens on her hip. "Easy now. No need to get greedy. You'll get what you need." That kind of talk always feels a little . . . off. Unsettling. Mostly, though, it's a sign that orgasms are coming, and her body is totally on board with that. She holds still, her hands tightening in his jacket as he strokes lightly along her lips. "There you go. Patience, little girl. Be good for me."

He slides two fingers into her and her body all but hums. _Finally._ The angle is a little different than usual, but she adjusts to it easily. He pumps in and out a few times, murmuring endearments all the while. It's not quite enough. She reaches for her clit, but he catches her wrist and bats it away. "Let me, sweetheart. You know all you've gotta do is ask."

She's not good at asking, even now. She tends to keep quiet, as much as she can, but she lets out a loud moan when his fingers settle on her clit and circle it lightly. Hands that large shouldn't be able to move that delicately, that precisely. He strokes and pumps until her breath is coming in pants and she can't keep still any longer. "Easy, girl," he murmurs, "Not yet." His hands pull back and settle on her waist, stilling her.

She leans back and gives him a rueful grin. "I'd apologize, but you knew what you were doing."

He smiles in response. It's warm and soft and there's only a few traces of the dark hunger remaining. "You don't ever need to apologize. You know that."

She drops a hand to the bulge in his lap. "You want . . . ?"

"I've got a better idea. Up." He nudges and she stands. He gets up too, joints creaking. "Over here." He drapes an arm around her bare shoulders and steers her over to the defunct car. "Bend over the hood . . . there you go . . . hands above your head . . . perfect." She follows the direction of his hands, letting him settle her face down across the hood with her hips over the edge and her ass sticking out. She's suddenly and acutely aware of the fact that she's totally naked and he hasn't even taken his jacket off. The metal is cool against her skin but his hands are warm and he's rubbing her back gently. She hears the rasp of a zipper and draws a breath to steady herself. He slides her panties down with one warm hand. It'll feel good, after a minute.

His hands settle around her hips and brace her. "Gonna fuck you now, sweetheart." He pushes in with one thrust that's quick but not brutal. She gasps and he holds still for a moment, letting her collect herself. It doesn't hurt - after the first two or three times, even the initial sting went away - but it always feels like she's being pulled apart at the seams. There's that sense of _too big, too much, too invasive_. There's a sense of something _not quite right._ While her body settles into it quickly enough, her brain always needs another minute or so to come to grips. He knows that and he always starts off slow. After the first thrust, he just rocks his hips in and out for a minute or two, stroking her back. "Easy, darling. You're okay."

It helps if she doesn't think of it as a _cock_ filling her. She knows why that is, though she hasn't been able to bring herself to tell him yet. The thought of it still turns her a little sideways, so she tries to think of it as just . . . pressure. As being filled. As Joel just _touching_ her. The murmured pet names help, as does the gentle way that he rubs over her skin and cups her breasts. She knows this isn't romantic love - not by a long shot - but there's no escaping the fact that he cares about her, and _that_ helps.

As always, her mind follows her body's lead and stretches to make room. Her muscles slacken and the overwhelming pressure becomes a slick slide that sends pleasant sparks through her. "Alright, baby doll?"

She looks up at him and smiles. He strokes through her hair, briefly, then lets his hands return to her hips. The rocking turns into thrusting, with increasing force and speed. She doesn't think she's felt anywhere close to his full strength - and considering what she's seen him do to hapless runners, she's sure she doesn't want to - but he's started taking her harder, at least once she adjusts to him. It adds a new energy to their coupling and a sense of danger that's not entirely unpleasant.

"That's my good girl . . . opening up so nice on my cock . . ."

She moans. Despite the clear _wrongness_ of it, some part of her lizard brain definitely wants that dick because she's getting wetter. It's okay. He's just _touching_ her.

"You look so good, all spread out for me. Wish I could fuck you just like this every time." 

He leans over her, his hands thudding down on the rusted metal. She catches on and smirks at him because she's seen this porno before. Or, at least, heard about it. "What is it about boys and cars?"

He laughs without slowing his thrusts at all. "This . . . this is nothing. Hardly counts as a car. Aw . . . _fuck . . ._ " She grinds back on him a little just to hear him make that noise.

"Now . . . back before, when we had _real_ cars? You've got no idea, baby doll."

"Why don't you explain it to me, then? If . . . _ah_ . . . if you can talk, that is."

"Okay, smart aleck." His voice is warm and amused. She doesn't see this side of him often enough. The playfulness. "There was this car . . . the '67 Mustang, everybody knew it. V8 engine, three hundred horsepower, the works. It could purr or it could roar. On a cool night, you'd take your girl out somewhere private and just let the engine _hum_ while you stretched her out on the hood."

Hmm. She can see the appeal, though she's not picturing what he thinks she is. To cover that reaction, she makes herself laugh. "And then it gets real romantic when the engine overheats and _your girl_ gets second degree burns on her tits."

He huffs softly. "It's a fantasy, okay?"

She gives her most unimpressed snort.

"Well, ain't you just a splash of cold water."

"Am I?" She wiggles her hips. "Guess you just wanna stop, then, huh?"

"Now, I didn't say that." He thrusts harder for a moment, rocking her forward onto the hood, then seems to catch himself and eases up. "Ellie," his voice is suddenly a little anxious, "You okay?" Apparently, the suggestion of stopping, even made jokingly, is enough to make him worry about her. It's kind of adorable, though she won't let him know that.

"I'm just fucking with you," she says through a grin, "Go on, you and the car were clearly having a moment."

He laughs and kisses her shoulder blade. "You're something else, kid." His thumbs rub circles into her hips. "I'll let you in on a little secret: those fantasies ain't about the car. They're about how the car makes her feel." 

He slides his hand around and strums over her clit. She closes her eyes. " _Vroom!_ "

"Vroom," he agrees.

She's moving with him, in synch, and it's finally _not weird_. She can hear him grunting and panting as he gets close but his fingers never stop moving on her clit. She still can't quite come with _so much_ inside her, but she rides the wave and lets each thrust punch a little more breath out of her. "That's my girl . . ." he grunts, "So good for me . . . god, _fuck_." He comes with a loud groan, buried deep in her. After, he thrusts a few times, then pulls out. "Turn over for me, darling."

She rolls onto her back and gasps as he buries his face between her thighs. She wraps her legs around his head without thinking. He _probably_ won't let her just smother him, but she doesn't have enough brain cells left over to think about that when he's licking over her cunt and swirling the slick up around her clit. Her hands scrabble on the smooth metal. She was already so close, and . . . " _Fuck!_ " 

Fuck.

He laps at her for long moments, until her orgasm subsides, then straightens and settles next to her on the hood. She smiles. "What is it about boys and cars?"

He snorts and presses a kiss to her shoulder before wrapping an arm around her. "You did good, darling. It's good that you're gettin' more relaxed about it. Seemed like you enjoyed most of that after the first part."

"Obviously."

His thumb rubs up and down her arm. "Still a little tense at the start, though."

"Sorry."

" _Don't be_. I just . . . wish I knew how to make that part better for you. Easier."

"It's fine." She sits up and grabs her jeans and panties. "Just takes me a minute."

He doesn't push, just stands, tucks his dick away, and goes to shake out his bedroll. She stares at his back as she pulls her shirt on. He tries so hard. He _wants_ this to be good for her, and he doesn't entirely understand why it can't be. Not completely. Because, she won't tell him.

She swallows. What could be the harm in telling him? He's been honest with _her_ about who he wants to fuck. What's the worst that could happen, he acts disgusted? He's a lot more . . . _different_ than she is, and she accepts _him_.

"Joel?" she says hesitantly. He turns and raises his eyebrows. She almost chickens out, but steels herself. "I think . . . I think I know part of why it takes me a while. And it's not _your_ fault. I don't think there's anything you could do differently, I just . . ." She stares at her knees and takes the deepest breath of her life. "I think I like girls." The words stream out of her in a rush and half of her wants to suck them right back into her lungs.

Joel is silent for a beat. Whatever he was expecting, it wasn't that. "Okay," he says cautiously, "You wanna . . . tell me what you mean by that?"

His voice isn't angry. It's not accusatory, though it belatedly strikes her how this must feel to him. She grits her teeth. "It's just . . . back in Boston, I had this friend. Riley. She was my best friend, and we did everything together. Only . . . I don't think I wanted to be _just_ friends. I think . . . I think I was falling in love with her."

It's a minute before she can work up the nerve to chance a look at Joel. He's sitting and drawing one knee up to his chest, still wearing that closed, cautious expression. "She feel the same way?"

"Maybe? I think so. I . . . kissed her once. She wasn't mad. Never went any further than that, you don't have to worry."

He waves a hand. Clearly, that's the last thing he's worried about. "What happened?"

"What do you think? I got bit."

He was silent for long moments, processing. "So, when I'm with you . . . ?"

"It feels good! It does. It just . . . bends the brain a little. It takes me a minute to get used to, but after that, I like it."

He bows his head and sighs. He doesn't respond.

"Look," she says carefully, "I'm not saying we have to stop. But, this isn't like a . . . happily ever after, white picket fence kind of relationship, and you know it. I'm just saying . . . someday I'm gonna be too old for you, right? And when we're done . . . I dunno, but maybe I want something different."

"You felt this way before we met?" he asks, "This isn't some . . . reaction to what I did to you?"

She didn't think of that. She does now, carefully mulling over all the boys she remembers from back in Boston. Shy boys who wanted to copy her homework and pass sappy love notes. Assholes who'd try to corner her and shove their dicks in her face. Little creeps who tried to Peeping Tom their way into the girls' locker room but cried when she hit them for it. She can't remember ever . . . wanting. There was only Riley, and before her Kendra, who didn't even know her name, and before _her_ Deanna, who was five years older and way too worldly to be caught paying attention to a little kid. "I think I've always been like this," she says slowly, "But, I don't know if it'll last? Maybe I'll grow out of it. That kind of thing happens, right?"

"Maybe," Joel allows, "Probably not."

She's suddenly angry, without really knowing why. She half-glares at him. "Well, how old were you? When _you_ knew?"

"That I liked women? It was kind of assumed."

"No, Joel, that you liked _girls_."

He flinches like she hit him. "So, that's what this is about." He shakes his head. "It ain't the same."

"Just answer the fucking question!"

"I _am_ answering the question! It _ain't_ the same. Being . . . gay or lesbian or whatever don't make you _sick_. Don't let anyone tell you different."

She stares at him for long moments and swallows past the lump in her throat. "Still."

He looks away. "Not gonna let up, are you?" She presses her lips together and doesn't answer. "Okay. I guess . . . you're the one that has to live with it. You oughta know." He stares down at his lap. "I . . . I wasn't always like this. I was . . . normal, once. Was even married for a little while."

_That's_ a curveball she wasn't expecting. "And she wasn't . . . ?"

"Young? She was seventeen when we got hitched. But, I was only eighteen, and it wasn't that uncommon." He shakes his head slowly. "I've . . . never heard a story like mine. I try not to fraternize with people like me. I dunno how common it is, but for me, the . . . thoughts . . . they started later. Before the outbreak, I never really looked at girls. Never wanted to. Figured anybody that did was a monster, and I kept a loaded shotgun in my house, just in case. That changed after the infection reached Austin."

Ellie stays silent. She wonders if he's ever talked about this before. From the tremulous look on his face, she's guessing _no_.

"That night, trying to get out of the city . . . there was a girl. She was twelve and she was hurt and I was trying to carry her. Soldiers caught up with us, they . . . they were under orders to contain the infection. At all costs. She got shot. An' she died, right there in my arms. Wasn't nothing I could do but watch." He pauses for long moments. "After . . . it stuck with me. All I could see, all I could _feel_ for a long time was how badly I'd failed her."

Her eyes are stinging. Ellie swallows hard and tries to get a grip. Joel is staring at his hands as if he can still see the blood. And hasn't Ellie been there a million times herself? Remembering the bloody tooth marks on Riley's hand and how they swelled with fluid, then fungus, while her eyes turned clouded, then unseeing, then enraged? "And after?" she prompts softly, "You started . . ."

"At first, I just wanted to hold them. I'd . . . find a little streetwalker who was about the same age, pay her for the hour, and just hold her in my arms, pretending she was _her_. Pretending it hadn't happened. The . . . thoughts started after a while. And, once I acted on them, there wasn't no turning back." He looks up at her. "It's a _sickness_. It's nothing like . . . what you are. Some girls like girls, some like boys, and some like both, but nobody gets hurt because of it. Now, I don't know if you're gonna end up liking men or not. But, I know it ain't _the same_."

She leans her head into her hands and takes a few short breaths. Well, she wanted _honesty_. "It's not your fault," she says quietly, "Soldiers . . . they do whatever they want. Everybody knows that. There was nothing you could've done."

He sighs. "Ellie . . . what you and I have is temporary. You're gonna move on from me, some day. By then, hopefully, the Fireflies will be done with you too, and you'll have the rest of your life ahead. You can _be_ with whoever you want." He looks up at her. "Maybe you can even go back to Boston. Meet up with this _Riley._ Find out if she feels the same way."

She closes her eyes. "I can't."

"Why not?"

"Because she got bit, too."

He looks away. "Shit." After a moment, he stands, picks up her bedroll, and opens the back door of the car. Very carefully, he lays out her blankets on the back seat. "This'll be better than sleeping on the ground. Get some rest. Early start, tomorrow."

Obediently, she crawls into the backseat and pulls the covers over herself. A moment later, the light dims as he douses the kerosene lamp. She can just barely see him in profile as he rolls himself in blankets, takes a shuddering breath, and tries to sleep.

Ellie stares up at the blank ceiling of the car, mulling over . . . all of it. After a few minutes, she decides to do what _feels_ right. She gets up, collects her blankets, and walks over to Joel. He stares up at her, his face illuminated by the gray haze of moonlight, filtered through dirty windows. Without speaking, she lies down beside him, wraps an arm around his waist, and tucks her head into his chest. For long moments, he lies frozen. Then, he makes a soft, pained noise. His arms wrap around her and pull her close. " _Shhhh_ , _"_ she whispers. He presses a soft kiss into the top of her head.

They lie there like that, wrapped up in each other, until the morning light wakes them and it's time to move on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Sad vroom noises)
> 
> THE COLD SHOWER:
> 
> (come for the car-porn, stay for the deep dive into the psychology of pedophilia)
> 
> -It's not really relevant to this particular story, but in The Real World, LGBT teens are shockingly vulnerable to homelessness and abuse. It's bad out there, kids. Donate to your local outreach program.
> 
> -Should someone that you're sleeping with come out and reveal that they are not attracted to your gender, loving and supporting them is great, and all, but you should also STOP SLEEPING WITH THEM. That's step one.
> 
> -When I started this fic, I really believed that I was inventing some 'fantastical' version of pedophilia that came on as a result of trauma and doesn't actually exist in the real world. Turns out, it's more complicated than that. There's a whole class of child sex abusers, generally called "regressed offenders," who don't have the typical life-long symptoms of pedophilia/hebephilia but start abusing children as adults, generally due to stressors in their environment. Their motives are usually more complicated than a simple need for sex, and they often feel remorse for their actions. These often aren't pedophiles in the traditional sense - they feel attraction to adults and might have adult relationships, but they also prey on children, for complex and varied reasons. The real world, it turns out, is scarier than fiction.


	7. Wyoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When they reach Jackson, Tommy has questions. Joel does his best to protect Ellie, but he can't save her from himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a lot more plot in this chapter, and it's kind of a transition point for the rest of the story. Later chapters will be less focused on the smut and more focused on breaking down the characters and giving them a chance to grow emotionally. 
> 
> Specific content warnings for this chapter: references to prostitution, mentions of castration, and (non-sexual) violence. As always, do not read if reading would be unhealthy for you.

Birds are chirping overhead. A little way down the hill, Snake River bubbles and churns. Joel shuts all that out and focuses on the warm body in his arms. He's got Ellie pressed against the smooth bole of an oak tree, her jeans, sneakers, and panties kicked off to the side. With one hand, he pins her wrists above her head. The other is up her shirt, toying with her breasts. "How's that, sweetheart? Feel okay?"

She moans softly. She's still not very vocal about sex, but he's gotten better about coaxing those little noises out of her. He bends his head down to kiss and nip briefly at her neck before pulling away and releasing her wrists. "Go on and take that shirt off." While she obeys, he unbuttons his own shirt and strips it off along with the underlying tank. He wants to feel her this time - he _needs_ to. He tries to keep his voice normal and steady. No point in letting her know that there's anything different about this time. "Spread your legs a little bit, doll. Want to get you all dripping and ready for me."

She's flushed and panting and she trembles a little as she spreads her feet to just past shoulder-width apart and tilts her hips toward him.

"Good girl." He steps close and runs a hand from her hip to her cunt. He keeps his touch gentle and delicate as he strokes her clit, the way she likes. This is her favorite part of sex, and today especially, he wants to make it good for her. "You like that, baby?" She nods a little, her eyes closed. His other hand strums over her nipple. He slides a finger from her clit to her pussy, presses teasingly against it, then slides it back. "There you go. That's my good girl, gettin' all wet and ready for my cock." He'd wondered, after her revelation back in Iowa, whether that kind of dirty talk would still work. So far it seems to, though he's not sure if that's from pure conditioning or if she gets off on the transgressive nature of it. She moans again, quietly.

The pressure in his jeans is getting to be too much. He opens them and shoves his pants and boxers down a little, just enough to free himself. Rather than move her into position, though, he stoops to lick and nibble at her nips, first one, then the other. He slides his middle finger into her cunt, just to the second knuckle. "That's it. Feels good, don't it?"

He drops to his knees and kisses down her stomach. "Lean back against the tree," he tells her, "Give me a little room to work." She bends her knees and tilts her pelvis toward him. She likes this part, too, though she sometimes complains about his beard. That makes sense, he supposes. Today, she's silent except for little breathy moans as he licks lightly over her clit and pushes just the tip of his tongue into her pussy. She always tastes sweet to him. Fresh. He tries to memorize the taste.

He's careful to pull away before she can climax. She always gets oversensitive after she comes and needs a little while to pull herself together. Today, he doesn't want to wait. "Put your arms around my neck, Ellie." She does, looking flushed but a little confused. He takes her by the hips, picks her up, and props her against the tree trunk. "Hold onto me just like that."

Now she's smirking a little, through her arousal. "Don't throw your back out."

He huffs softly into her ear. "I'll try, smart mouth."

"'Cause, I'm totally going to laugh if you throw your back out."

He leans back and just stares into her face for a minute, drinking her in. There's no fear in her expression. No pain. She's laughing, almost. When she sees the expression on his face, though, her own face becomes a little nervous. He holds her gaze for a moment, then tucks her head in towards his chest. "You hush and be a good girl. Gonna sit you down on my cock, now."

He's diamond hard, and it takes a moment of adjusting before he can take himself in hand and bring his cock to her opening. His shoulders ease as he lets her slide down onto him, his cock sinking deep into the slick tightness until she's fully seated. She's tight. She's always tight when he first starts, no matter how much he got her worked up beforehand. He groans, long and low, at the sensation. He tries to memorize it.

"What a good girl . . . taking my whole cock in one go . . . feels so good around me . . . so proud of you, baby doll."

Her hands tighten on his neck.

"Put your legs around my waist. Cross 'em at the ankles. There you go, doll. Help hold yourself up that way."

He presses her against the trunk and hitches his hips slowly in and out. "That's it. Take my cock. Gonna fuck you nice and slow, sweetheart."

He sets up an easy, rocking rhythm. She's whimpering and gasping from time to time. She's always overwhelmed when he first starts fucking her, but she settles into it quick enough. "That's my good girl. Feelin' so good around me."

He doesn't want it to end. He drags it out, fucking her slowly even as his arms and legs start to shake from the effort of supporting her. She takes it as well as any pro he's ever known. He knows it's a ridiculous thought - unfair, even - but he can't shake the feeling that she's made for him. Her body fits him perfectly. Her weight never feels like a burden.

He kisses her temple softly and draws a hand around to stroke gently at her clit. "There you go, darling. That feel good? Want you to come on my cock this time. You can do it, baby doll . . ."

Her face tightens suddenly and she cries out while her walls spasm and milk at his cock. He rolls his hips into her faster and harder, fucking her through her orgasm. "That's it," he pants, "Takin' it so good . . . Gonna . . ." He groans, long and loud as he paints her insides with his cum.

It always feels like coming home.

In the aftermath, he holds her for a minute while they both catch their breath. Once he feels like he can move again, he eases her off of him, sets her on her feet, and steadies her. "Good job, kid." He runs a hand up her back, worried that she might've scraped it on the tree's bark, but the skin is smooth. His own back twinges a little. 

She catches his wince and grins. "Need an Advil?"

He snorts. A smile tugs at his lips, but it's a little sad. She reverts so easily to the happy-go-lucky kid. He can almost pretend he's not doing her any harm. That's the dangerous thing about it. He takes her face between his hands, studies it for a moment, then kisses her forehead. He hopes she'll take that as just a little more sex play, but from the way her eyes suddenly cloud, she must guess at least some of the emotion behind it.

"Joel? What's wrong?"

He looks away. "Nothing. Let's get cleaned up. Can't show up in Jackson looking like this."

While he buttons himself in and tugs his shirt back on, she collects her scattered clothes and fishes a clean pair of underwear out of her pack. He sees her shiver. It's starting to get chilly out, especially up in these mountains. He should've known better than to do this out in the open.

"So," she says, "Safe to say we're keeping it on the down low while we visit your brother?" Her back is to him and she's using the old pair of underwear to clean up the mess between her legs.

Joel grunts. "If we can. We definitely can't make a show of it. Could get complicated."

She wads up the dirty underwear, stuffs it into the depths of her pack, and steps into the clean pair. "How complicated are we talking?"

"There's a good chance Tommy will figure it out. And if he does . . . he ain't gonna like it."

She pulls on her shirt and turns back to him. "Does he know? Y'know . . . about you?"

He looks away. "Maybe."

"The fuck does that mean?"

"It means that he caught me once. Back before he left Boston . . . he walked in on me with a streetwalker. She was thirteen, and he was pissed."

"Shit. What did you say?"

"That it was none of his goddamn business. Which it wasn't. He had a few choice words to share about that. Then, twenty-four hours later, he was gone. Marlene had to be the one to tell me he'd joined the Fireflies. He just packed up his shit and left town."

"Because of the girl?"

"Honestly, I think she was just the last straw. He'd been . . . uncomfortable for a while with how we'd been living."

"The smuggling, you mean."

He nods. Smuggling and other things.

"So, he knows. Will that stop him from helping us?"

Joel shrugs. "He might not _know_. Plenty of men . . . dabble in that kind of thing once or twice. They ain't all like me."

"I mean, he'll have to have a little perspective, right? My immunity is supposed to be some kind of one-in-a-million save-the-world sort of shit. Compared to that, who's boinking who would seem kind of trivial, don't you think?"

He grabs his pack and slings it over his shoulder. "Well, there's no sense in worrying about it. Let's just work on getting there."

She nods and trots down the sloping path, toward the river. He watches her back. Her gait is light and easy, as if she doesn't have a care in the world. Nothing could be farther from the truth, he knows. He sighs and trudges after her. This is for the best. Tommy probably wouldn't piss on Joel if he were on fire, but he's not gonna turn away a wide-eyed kid in need of protection - not when the other option is leaving her with Joel. He'll take her on, get her where she needs to go, and actually be a decent human being while he's doing it. In time, maybe she'll be able to forget about Joel, or at least come to terms with what he's done to her. It's the closest he can get her to happily ever after. She needs that. She deserves it.

With a combination of awe and disgust, his mind lingers on the memory of her weight pinned against the tree, of her tight heat around him and the little sounds she made . . . It's the last time, he knows. It has to be, or he'll ruin her for good.

They barely speak as they pick their way upstream, and then across the reservoir. On the far shore, a winding rock path leads up to the dam entrance and a couple of outbuildings. There's a rutted track that used to be a road leading away into the mountains, but it's going south, and they need to go north. As far as Joel can tell, the dam sits squarely between them and where the town's supposed to be. The wall around it is easily fifteen feet high . . . but the trail ends here, so their only other option is to rough it across a mountain landscape that's probably impassable. That would be suicide with no gear.

"We gotta find a way over it," Joel tells Ellie as he stares up at the wall, "Or around." The gate is tall and solid, lined with barbed wire at the top. Vines have started to grow over it, but not enough to give reliable handholds for scaling the thing. Someone's maintaining this place, or was very recently. Joel paces down the side, trying to judge whether they can safely get over by piling crates and old water drums. It's risky.

Before he can even give it an attempt, though, there's a sudden whistle like an alarm, and then the top of the wall is bristling with the barrels of a half dozen rifles. Joel grabs Ellie, shoves her into cover behind a pile of stacked crates, and ducks down himself, swinging his own rifle down from his shoulder. Beside him, Ellie comes up with her 9 mm cocked.

"Hunters?" she whispers.

"Maybe," he answers.

"You're outnumbered! You two have got ten seconds to drop your guns! We're not screwing around this time."

Joel chances a peek over the crate. The voice must've come from the woman. She's about Joel's age, with blonde hair streaked with gray and framing a hard, no-nonsense sort of face. He hesitates and scans the other five. He can only get glimpses of most of their faces. But, the guy on the end . . .

"Toss your gun," he tells Ellie abruptly, "But stay in cover."

"But . . ."

"Do it."

She suppresses her need to argue, tosses the gun over the crate, and holds her open hands up so that they'll be just visible over the top of the crates. Joel holds out his rifle to the side, drops it, and slowly straightens. "We don't want any trouble."

He hears an intake of breath, then a familiar voice. "Always does seem to find you, though, don't it?"

He lifts his head. "You gonna shoot me, little brother?"

There's a pause. Several of the guards cock their guns. Joel can't tell if Tommy is one of them. "Tommy. You know this guy?" That's the woman's voice.

"Thought I did. Once."

" _Well_? Are they friendlies?"

Tommy hesitates. "Let's get a look at _her_ ," he calls out at last.

Joel swallows. Yeah, Tommy's got no illusions about him. Nothing for it. He waves for Ellie to stand and she does so, hands held steady at shoulder height.

"Shit." Tommy's voice is a little shaky.

"Well, Tommy?"

"Just . . . Just give me a minute. Maria, can I have a word?"

"'Course. Rest of you, keep your guns on 'em."

"The girl's probably okay," Tommy calls out, "Watch _him_." He and the woman disappear off the side of the wall.

Ellie edges towards Joel, looking for reassurance. Normally, he'd put a hand on her shoulder, or at least try to get himself between her and the guns. Today, he catches her eye and shakes his head sharply. "They start shootin', I don't want you gettin' caught in the crossfire." She swallows, but nods and keeps her distance.

After five minutes that feel like hours, the gate swings open and Tommy steps out, the woman beside him. "This is Maria," Tommy says shortly, "She runs this operation."

Joel inclines his head. "Ma'am."

For the moment, she seems content to let Tommy do the talking. Her fingers tighten on the twelve gauge in her hands.

"Who's the girl?"

"None of your fucking business!"

" _Ellie_ ," Joel says sharply. He waits until she looks at him. "This is my brother. Tommy."

Tommy's eyes never waver from Joel's face. "Where'd you pick her up?"

"Hey, asshole! I'm standing right here!"

Joel sighs. "It's a long story. We need to talk." He looks at Maria. "There a place we can do it privately?"

Her lips are pressed together in a hard line. "We're reclaiming this power plant. We've got some quarters and supplies inside. The girl is welcome in there." She levels the shotgun at Joel. "You ain't."

"Then, fuck that!"

" _Ellie!_ " He pauses, then looks at Maria. "We ran out of food yesterday. I'd appreciate if you'd feed her."

"Of course."

" _Joel . . ._ "

"It's okay, Ellie," he says quickly, "Go with them. I'll . . . I'll talk with you later."

Maria waves her through the open gate, and she reluctantly goes with her, though not before snatching up her 9mm and tucking it into her waistband as if daring someone to stop her. Joel watches her retreating back until Tommy clears his throat. It's done, then. He's actually done it . . . He tears his gaze away and looks at Tommy. "Well?"

His brother is shaking his head, his expression twisted. "I should've fucking neutered you before I ever left Boston."

Joel snorts and picks up his rifle. "Good to see you too, little brother."

"Well? You wanna talk or you wanna ogle?"

He glances up at the hostile faces still lining the wall. "Not here."

With the barrel of his rifle, Tommy points back the way they came. "This way."

Joel precedes him down the winding path and over a shelf of rock. Tommy slings the gun back over his shoulder, but his posture remains just as tense. "The fuck are you doing here?" he says at last, "And with a _kid._ How old is that girl? Thirteen? _Twelve_?"

Joel shakes his head. "It's not what it looks like."

"Oh, ain't it?"

"She's cargo."

"Who would trust _you_ with that kind of cargo?"

"Matter of fact, it was your old pal Marlene."

That catches Tommy off guard for a moment. "The Fireflies. Are using _you_."

Joel shrugs.

"I feel like you'd better explain."

"What the hell do you think I've been trying to do?" Joel pauses and takes a breath. "It was supposed to be a quick job. A couple hours, in and out. The kid was inside the QZ, I had to get her across town to meet a team that was supposed to move her out of the city. Only, FEDRA got there first and wiped out our contacts. Couldn't go back to Boston, either - the feds were raining hellfire on the Fireflies and anyone connected with 'em."

"So, what, you just decided to keep her as a pet?"

Joel glares. "What the fuck is your problem, Tommy?"

"Oh, are you really . . . my problem? My fucking _problem_? After I caught you with little Olivia, did you think I didn't ask any questions?"

Joel says nothing. He realizes with a dawning horror that he'd forgotten that particular girl's name.

"Yeah, it turns out every pimp in Boston knows more about Joel Miller than his own brother. I found out about the others - or some of 'em. Nia. Yvette. Amie. Christina. Not one of them over thirteen when you started with them and not one over fifteen when you stopped. So, would you please show a little respect and stop lying to me?"

Joel looks away. If Tommy's made inquiries, there's no point in denying it. He nods a little. "I . . . I tried to be decent about it. Always paid what they were owed, never roughed them up, never gave them drugs or booze or any shit like that."

"I'm sure that was a huge comfort to them while you were fucking them."

Joel conceals a flinch. He's thinking about Amie - a small-boned, delicate sort of creature with mouse-brown hair and big eyes. After a couple weeks of blow jobs and gentle fondling, he paid double to be her first. She panicked half-way through and had to be held down. He went on with it anyway, justifying to himself that if he didn't take it, her pimp would just sell her virginity to some other pervert who might not be as careful. He held her for a while afterward. It didn't help. 

He makes himself look at Tommy. "Ellie is fourteen. And . . . yeah, we've had an arrangement. Don't mean I want to see her hurt. That's why I'm here. I need you to take her off my hands."

Tommy seems briefly dumbfounded. He paces back and forth in the small clearing. After a moment, he turns and steps over a log onto a bluff overlooking the river. Joel follows, but stops when he sees the grave. "Shit."

It's no more than a couple weeks old. Rain has smoothed out the overturned dirt but neither the wooden cross nor the teddy bear have weathered much. Tommy stares at it with a dead expression. "Couple of stragglers," he explains, "A young father and a three-year-old were trying to get by out here, off of fish from the dam. They were too scared to come to town. By the time we found them, a fever had taken the little boy."

Joel shakes his head. Shit. "What happened to the dad?"

"We brought him to Jackson. But, he ate his gun two weeks ago."

Of course he did. What kind of a monster can just go on living after that kind of a loss?

"Just answer me one thing," Tommy says slowly, his eyes on the stuffed animal, "How far back does it go?"

Anger flares, sudden and hot. "The fuck are you asking me?"

"All those girls were about the same age. Eleven to fourteen. And that ain't the kind of . . . problem that develops overnight just 'cause. They're all just about _her_ age."

"Are you seriously asking me if I ever touched Sarah?"

"Well? _Did_ you? I've gotta know; she was my niece!"

"She was my _daughter_!" Joel takes a swing at him, but Tommy dodges and shoves him back so hard Joel almost trips. He needs a moment to steady himself. He stares at his feet. " _Never_ ," he says fervently, "Never touched, never even looked, never wanted to. My . . . my problem started after. Something about the end of the goddamn world. Guess it brings out the worst in people." He walks to the edge of the bluff and stares down at the river. "I can't stop - I've tried. All I can do is try to limit the damage."

"That's the thing, though," Tommy says slowly, "You _could_ stop."

Joel rolls his eyes. "You don't get it."

"Maybe not, but I've done my research. What I said earlier? About what I should've done before I left Boston? I wasn't just fucking with you. If you _really_ don't want to be like this, there's . . . things you can do. Medications. Operations - with real doctors, with pain medications and antibiotics and the works. There's ways to keep from hurting any more little girls."

Joel scowls and shakes his head. "I looked into that shit too - years and years ago. There's no way. I ain't doin' that."

"Is sex that goddamn important to you?"

"It ain't just about _sex_. I wouldn't have any testosterone left - it'd be like aging twenty years in a week. How long do you think I could survive out here like that? Half my strength gone, barely able to heal if I got hurt, just doddering around like an old man?"

"Well, what's the alternative?"

"I am handling it! Now, most of the time, Ellie doesn't even seem to realize that I'm hurtin' her. She's a good kid. I just need to get her into the right hands - to someone I _trust_ \- before she figures it out."

Tommy is looking out over the river, defeated. He shakes his head. "We're safe in Jackson. We've got a good setup - fortifications, an electric fence if we can ever get the damn plant going again. Plenty of young families that can take in an extra kid. It don't make up for what she's been through, but the girl will be safe there, as long as you stay the fuck away."

Joel shakes his head. He's not making himself understood. "No, Tommy. I need _you_ to take her on. You've gotta get her where she's going."

Tommy looks at him sharply. "And where's that?"

"The Fireflies. They've got a lab, don't they? Somewhere out west."

He stares. "Okay, Joel, I'll bite. What the fuck is so important about this girl that she's got Marlene making her travel plans and you of all people trying to get her to the goddamn Fireflies?"

Joel rotates his jaw. "After we missed our rendezvous, we had to bail out of Boston. Only escape route was through miles of subway tunnels with spores so thick you could hardly see through 'em. I had a gas mask. She didn't need one. She never even coughed."

" _What_?"

"She's immune. I've seen her breathe spores, get bit, the works, and she never gets so much as a cold. That's why the Fireflies need her. They think they can use whatever happened to her to make a cure. Now, you were tight with Marlene. You know where this lab of theirs is, don't you?"

He nods reluctantly. "Maybe. It's been years, though. Who's to say they're even there anymore?"

"You've gotta get her to them. Marlene thought this might turn the tide and start wiping out Cordyceps."

"And since when do you give a damn about saving the world?"

"Jus' . . . Just get her to them, alright? She needs this."

There's something . . . complicated twisting across Tommy's face. "You care about her."

Joel sighs and rubs the back of his neck. "She deserves better than me."

Tommy stares at him for a moment, then looks down at the dirt. He's going to do it. Joel's almost sure of it.

Whatever answer he might give, though, is cut off by the sudden boom of an explosion, accompanied by shouts and the screams of horses. Both of their heads snap around. Up the trail, the dam entrance is concealed by the trees. The gray cloud of smoke rising from the gate, however, is not.

"Shit!"

Tommy is swinging his rifle down and chambering a round. Joel hurries to follow suit. "What the hell?"

"Raiders," his brother says shortly, already trotting up the trail, "They've hit us a couple times before. An' now they've got _bombs_."

Joel jogs after him, listening to the crack of echoing gunfire. Shit. _Ellie_. "I thought you said this place was safe!"

"The _town_ is safe! And the power plant keeps it that way. We gotta take these assholes out."

They reach the top of the trail and drop automatically into cover behind a boulder. The raiders apparently arrived on a motley collection of motorbikes. Joel counts maybe a dozen, armed with pistols and rifles. The gate is blown half off its hinges and they're knocking it the rest of the way down with a battering ram fashioned from an old dumpster. Behind the walls, Tommy's people are still shooting, but clearly retreating. A few screams - unmistakably human, this time - tear through the air.

"Shit, they're almost inside!" Tommy gathers himself and prepares to come up firing, but Joel grabs him by his collar and keeps him down.

"They don't know we're here. Once they're through the gate, we can drop in behind and get the jump on 'em. Pick 'em off in small groups instead of the whole army."

"They're comin' in shooting! How many of my people are gonna die while we wait for this little ambush?"

"What's the use in us joining them?"

"You son of a _bitch_." For a whisper, Tommy's voice sure can carry a lot of venom. Joel's face hardens.

"We're sitting ducks out here. We shoot too soon, they'll surround us and take us out, and _then_ who's supposed to defend this plant?"

Tommy growls but seems to reluctantly see the logic. He settles into cover. The first of the intruders are pushing through the gate. From the echoing quality of some of the gunshots, the defenders have ducked back into the building and are shooting out the doors and windows. Joel takes a moment to load his revolver. _Shit_. Ellie's in there somewhere, assuming she hasn't caught a bullet yet. He never should've let her out of his sight.

Before _that_ thought is fully formed, he pushes it away. He's at least as dangerous to her as any raider. At least she has the good sense to shoot _them_.

They wait, jaws clenched, until only two raiders remain to watch the bikes. The guards probably aren't their best or brightest either; instead of watching the trees for threats, they're staring after their buddies, probably wishing they could get in on the real action. Joel and Tommy approach quickly and silently, darting from cover point to cover point in a crouch.

"What do you think?" Tommy whispers as they shelter behind a stack of crates, "Can we take them out quiet?"

Joel steals another glance and nods. "Same time." He grabs a shiv from his pocket and offers it to Tommy. Luck is on their side. The raiders don't turn as they creep up behind them. Joel's heart is pounding. Fear mixes with rage - the old familiar cocktail. He can feel the darkness growing - an itch under his skin. He focuses it into a weapon, directed at the larger of the two raiders. Springing up from a crouch, he grabs the man around the throat, swings him to the ground, and stomps on his neck hard enough to crush his windpipe. The man dies silently, while Tommy's target lets out only a small gurgle past the shiv in his throat.

There's no need to talk as they move in. They communicate with hand signals and move in familiar patterns. There are two more raiders in the small courtyard just outside the fence. When Joel and Tommy pop out of cover in unison, Joel knows to target the closer of the two while Tommy, a crack shot his whole life, takes down the one farther out. 

They make it to the doors of the plant before the rest of the attackers realize that they're there, and Joel gets one of them in the back with his revolver before they have to duck for cover. That throws the raiders into confusion as they're caught between the retreating but regrouping Jackson men and Joel and Tommy's advance. They scatter down the rat warren halls of the plant, but Tommy and the others from Jackson know this place, and they don't. Joel banishes thought and stays right on Tommy's ass, watching his back. He takes his shots when he sees them, and Tommy does the same. It's dicey for a minute, once they have the last four gunmen pinned down in a hallway with Tommy's people on the other side and it looks like they're gearing up for a last stand, but Joel throws a molotov before they can get too brave, and the survivors die in the resulting hail of bullets.

Once it's done, Tommy pauses for a moment, panting, his hand on the crate they're sheltered behind. "That's the last of them." He starts to straighten, but Joel catches a flash of movement down the hallway and yanks him back down before a rifle round can blow his head off. " _Shit!_ " Tommy peeks out from cover more cautiously. "Eugene, you trigger-happy son of a bitch, it's me!"

"Tommy?" The man at the other end of the hall stands slowly. He's broad-chested and gray-headed with a full beard and a shotgun in his hand. "You the one that threw the firebomb?"

"Close, that was my brother." Tommy stands and Joel slowly follows suit. "We get 'em all?"

"Looks that way. They never got too deep into the plant. We got a couple injuries, but they'll make it."

"Maria? And the girl?"

"They're fine. They're holed up back in the offices. The kid's a spitfire."

"Yeah, I'm sure. Let's go." Tommy sets off down the hallway and it takes him a minute to realize that Joel's not behind him anymore. When he does, he turns. " _What_ , Joel?"

Joel just shakes his head. He feels rooted to the spot. The adrenaline of the fight is fading away, leaving nothing but a hard lump in his chest. "You're sure she's okay?"

"She's fine," Eugene says quickly.

Joel takes a deep breath. There's no other choice. There's no other play that keeps her safe, and he _needs_ her to be safe. "Then, this is as far as I go."

It takes Tommy a second to realize what he means. When he does, his face freezes. "Jesus Christ, Joel, at least . . . at least talk to the kid. Explain it to her."

"I _can't_ , Tommy. You wouldn't understand. I pray you never have to."

"Joel . . ."

He shakes his head. "Tell her I left before the raiders showed up. Or tell her they killed me, I don't care, but you keep her from coming after me, you understand me, Tommy? You keep her safe."

"Shit." There's a mess of emotion crossing Tommy's face. Confusion and frustration and understanding and, finally, respect. "You sure?"

"Yeah. This is how it's gotta be."

Tommy nods and offers him his shiv back, only a little dented. "Be _careful_ out there, Joel."

Joel nods and turns before he can change his mind and then he's _walking_. _Leaving_. He's actually _doing it_.

He doesn't let himself stop, or think, or regret until he's miles away, bereft, but free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly? If you're just here to enjoy a sweet-and-smutty underage road trip, then this is probably your stop. Put the fic down and write whatever happily-ever-after you want. Tommy takes her to the Fireflies and Ellie saves the world. Or, she stays in Jackson, meets Dina, and lives the dream. Or, Joel comes back for her and they live smuttily ever after. I promise I won't judge.
> 
> For those of you who are still here, we're headed for Colorado and it's going to get dark. There will be less sex in future chapters, and the sex scenes will be darker and more violent. Joel will make some highly questionable choices and Ellie will be forced into some deeply unfortunate situations. There is hope for them, but they're gonna go through hell first. 
> 
> And, without further ado:
> 
> THE COLD SHOWER:
> 
> -Joel does a lot of rationalizing to protect his image of himself. Trying to make sex "good" for Ellie is a major component of this, as is treating his underage prostitutes "well" back in Boston. He doesn't want to think of himself as a person who hurts kids, but the denial isn't strong enough to protect him completely, especially when he's confronted by someone like Tommy.
> 
> -Joel justifies his past use of child prostitutes in the name of harm reduction - since, at least he's not snatching kids off the street. The trouble, of course, is that he's still abusing kids, which will have lifelong ramifications for them, and he's contributing to a market for child sex abuse, which puts even more kids at risk. More on this later.
> 
> -"I should have fucking neutered you" (skip this one if you don't want to hear about it)
> 
> Tommy references chemical and surgical castration for a reason: in the real world, these are widely considered the most reliable method of harm reduction for child sex abusers. Chemical castration requires ongoing treatment, usually with monthly injections to suppress testosterone, and can be court-ordered in many cases. Surgical castration is exactly what you're picturing and is sometimes offered as an alternative for men sentenced to chemical castration. And some pedophiles do volunteer for this type of treatment. The trouble is that, while it reduces the sex drive and usually makes a man asexual, it does nothing to deal with the psychological stressors that drive people to child sex abuse.
> 
> -In canon, Joel tries to leave Ellie in Wyoming because he's trying to protect himself from caring about her and potentially facing the pain of losing her. It's a purely selfish decision. In this fic, he's correctly identified that their "relationship" is harming her and decided to cut himself off. But, the way that he does it is bound to make Ellie's abandonment issues worse. He leaves without saying goodbye largely because that's what will be the least painful for him.


	8. Sick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Ellie runs away from Jackson, Joel decides to show her who he is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heed the updated tags. Specific warnings for non-con and sexual violence this chapter. Do not read if reading would be unhealthy for you.

Once the raid is repelled and Joel is nowhere to be seen, Ellie yells and screams and argues, but all it gets her is a sore throat. They take her back to town, riding pinion with Maria. They probably think she's too fragile to have physical contact with a man, even if it's just riding a horse with him. 

It quickly becomes clear that Joel sang like a canary, but Tommy keeps the details between himself and Maria, communicating it all in hushed whispers when none of the others seem to be looking. Ellie figures out that they're an item about ten minutes before they usher her up to a quaint little clapboard house with "Thomas and Maria Miller" stenciled on the mailbox. All of Jackson looks like a painting - like one of those old-timey drawings of life from long before the outbreak. There are actual picket fences lining the front lawns, without even any peeling paint. The only concession to practicality appears to be that most of the flower beds are growing pumpkins and tomatoes instead of roses. Electric street lights click on as evening approaches, drawing cheers and applause from dozens of people.

Ellie's head is spinning. It all feels surreal - like she climbed into a time machine and took it for a spin back to the fifties. That sense of unreality only deepens when Maria ushers her into a house that's spotlessly clean. Paintings and photos hang on the walls. There's a bookshelf crammed with hard covers and paperbacks. There are honest-to-god knick knacks on the coffee table - little carvings of horses and glass ballerinas and heavy amber paperweights.

They show her to a guest room and tell her that they can talk more once she's rested and to tell them if she needs anything. Then, they leave her alone.

Ellie showers because actual hot water is a rare treat not to be wasted. She changes into an old tee-shirt and an oversized pair of pajama bottoms that Maria left on her bed. Then, she sets about trying to fix this. Her bare feet make almost no noise as she creeps out of her room and down the stairs. Tommy and Maria are in the study. They're speaking in the kind of intense almost-whispers that adults use when they want to yell but don't want to be overheard.

"You should have told me about him!"

"Why? You think it's some kind of genetic curse or something? It ain't!"

"He was a huge part of your life! How many times did I ask you why you split from your brother, and you just blew me off?"

"You knowing wouldn't have made a bit of difference. I left because I had to. Ain't like I could have argued him into having a conscience, and I had no way to stop him unless I was ready to kill him. And he's still family. So, I left. Wasn't affecting our lives here, so I kept quiet."

"Well, it's affecting our life now, isn't it? How did he even know where to find you?"

"I didn't tell him! Must've been Marlene, and for that girl's sake, I'd say it's a damn good thing he knew."

Maria is silent for a moment. "I can't even imagine what she's been through."

Ellie rolls her eyes.

"Yeah. Well. He at least tried to do the right thing in the end. He knew he was no good for her."

"And you're sure he's not coming back?"

"He's washed his hands of the kid. He'll go find some other hole to crawl into and get back to _survivin',_ whatever the hell that means."

Ellie scowls. So he did ditch her. Well, at least that means he's not dead, either at the raiders' hands or Tommy's. Good, 'cause she's gonna kill him herself just as soon as she finds him.

"And this lab that he wanted you to find?"

"I know the one. University of Eastern Colorado. With a horse, I can have her there in two weeks."

"You've gotta be kidding me. You actually want to do it?"

"Did you not hear what I said about her?"

"What _he_ said about her."

"And why would he lie? Why lie about something like that?"

"Tommy. You _cannot_ take that girl back out there. It's way too dangerous. She's lucky to have made it this far."

"She's a tough kid. I don't think she cares about the risks."

"And what about the risks to _you_?"

Ellie walks away. She's heard what she needs to hear. Maria runs this whole town. They may be screwing, but Tommy's crazy if he thinks he can overrule her. And she has a feeling he won't try that hard. They both see her the same way - as some kind of a broken doll. A wounded puppy in need of healing. It's frustrating as fuck.

She pads into the kitchen and opens the fridge, because ample food, too, is way too valuable to be wasted. The fridge is cold, but empty. Of course. They just got the power on. They wouldn't have had a chance to stock it yet.

She closes the door, thinking to try the pantry instead, but a photo stuck to the front catches her eye. Held up by a cheerful red magnet, there's a slightly faded photograph of a blonde girl grinning and waving some kind of trophy. Ellie studies it. She's seen no sign of kids in the house. And neither Tommy nor Joel mentioned having any other family out there. Maybe this is a relative of Maria's? Or _was_. It's an old photograph - pre-outbreak, probably. The photo is folded in half. There's an arm around the girl's shoulders . . .

She's reaching for it when footsteps behind her and a sharp intake of breath make her freeze. "Hey kiddo," Tommy says gruffly, "Didn't hear you come down."

She glances at him and chews on her lip. "Sorry."

"No, it's fine. You hungry? We've got some PB and J in the cupboard."

She shakes her head, hesitates, and looks back at the photo. "Who was she?"

Tommy steps up behind her and sighs. She can feel his hand hovering, as if he wants to put it on her shoulder but changes his mind at the last moment. "That's my niece."

Ellie's eyes widen. "Your _niece_?"

"Her name was Sarah. She died the same night the infection reached Austin."

"And if she's your niece, then Joel is . . ."

Tommy takes the photo down from the fridge, unfolds it, and offers it to Ellie. "Her dad. Yeah."

She stares. A very young Joel smiles up at her, his arm thrown carelessly around the girl's shoulders. "He never told me."

"Yeah . . . well. He was never quite right after she died. I don't think I ever saw that look on his face again."

Ellie swallows because she's pretty sure she has. Not when he's fucking her - this is nothing like the dark and hungry want that fills his face in times like that. But, at other times, when he thinks she's not looking, she'll catch him watching her and smiling and looking like this. When she nails a squirrel in one shot and turns to brag. When she pesters him with details and speculations on her latest comic while he feigns disinterest. When he's fumbling for words, trying to explain what ice cream was like, or airplanes, or professional baseball. When he kissed her forehead just this morning, and she _knew_ it had nothing to do with post-coital bliss.

"Why keep this around?" she asks, "Seems like you were pretty pissed at him. You could've cut him out of the photo, instead of just folding it."

"I try to remember him like he was. Before the world got shot to hell. You might not believe this, but . . . he was a good guy."

"I _do_ believe it. He still is."

Tommy gives her a look of deep disquiet, but shrugs. "He loved his daughter more than life itself. An' I have to believe that that was pure. That he wasn't . . ."

"He wasn't. I'm pretty sure." Tommy arches an eyebrow and Ellie shrugs. "He says it's different when it's your own blood."

She thought that might comfort him, but he almost flinches. He takes the photo back, folds it so only Sarah is visible, and tacks it to the fridge. "I'll get you some food."

She turns, her irritation rising. "Y'know . . . you're all being huge prudes about this."

Tommy snorts without turning. He's pulling glass jars from a cabinet and a loaf of bread from the bread box. "Trust me, girl, we're not."

"Then, you can stop treating me like I'm some kind of victim. Like I'm made of glass. I knew what I was getting into. Yeah, it got a little weird with Joel, but I handled it."

"You ain't seeing things clearly."

"Or maybe I'm the only one that is! He got me safely across the country. He kept me out of the hands of FEDRA and infected and . . . so many fucking gangs I lost count of them all. He never let me get hurt."

" _He_ was hurtin' you."

"He wasn't! I get it, he was a perv, and that's wrong, but he never hurt me. He tried not to even _scare_ me. Most of the time I liked what he did to me, so does that make me sick too?"

"Of course not!"

"Then, how was he hurting me?"

"He _was_. And he knew it, too! That's why he left."

"Or maybe he left because you convinced him he was an irredeemable piece of shit!"

"Ellie!"

That's Maria's voice, and it's sharp. Ellie spins. She's already pegged this woman as not someone to cross.

"I know you're upset, honey. But, you ain't gonna talk that way to Tommy and me."

Ellie swallows. Tommy is spreading jam on bread and avoiding her gaze. "Sorry."

He grabs a plate, cuts the sandwich in half, and pushes it towards her. Ellie takes a slow breath.

"He was my best shot at getting to the Fireflies." She spits Tommy with a hard look. "Are _you_ gonna take me?"

He looks away. He doesn't answer.

She snorts. Nice people can be so fucking useless. She takes the plate and turns toward the door. "Thanks for the sandwich."

()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()

Joel just picks a direction and walks. It happens to be west. Well, that's as good as any. There's supposed to be zones still on the West Coast - Seattle, Portland, Sacramento. Some FEDRA-controlled, some not, but probably all of them in need of smugglers with decent fighting skills and few moral qualms. There's not much point in going back to Boston. Not like there's anything keeping him there.

It's a clear night with a full moon, so he walks right through it. No point in stopping, since then he'd just have to _think_. If he can keep going long enough, tire himself out enough, maybe by the time he has to stop he'll just be dead to the world and can sleep without dreams. Morning comes, and he just keeps walking, even though he's stumbling sometimes and tripping over the broken asphalt. Exhaustion dims all feeling and most thoughts. Which is good, because what he's _feeling_ don't matter. He did what he had to do. He did right by her - or as close to right as someone like him can get. She'll be safe, now. In time, she might even be okay.

He's so tired, and so focused on _not thinking_ , that he almost doesn't hear the horse in time. When he hears the clatter of approaching hooves, he has just a moment to throw himself off the main road and take shelter behind a broad tree trunk. There's no chance the rider didn't spot him. He draws his revolver and takes a deep breath. He hears the horse thunder past him, then slow to a trot, then a walk. He's coming back around . . .

Joel swings his gun into line and sticks his head out and only a lifetime of practice in trigger discipline keeps him from shooting the rider dead in her saddle. His chest clenches. His heart races, all weariness forgotten. He didn't even know Ellie could ride a horse. He holsters his gun and steps out into the road as she reins it in. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Her face is hard. Determined, yes, but also angrier than he's ever seen it. "You're going the wrong way," she snaps, "Turns out, the Firefly lab is in Colorado. South."

"Ellie, _what_ are you doing here? Did Tommy kick you out?"

She snorts. "No. I'm sure he would've been happy to keep me around as a pet. Him and Maria both. Did you know they're hitched?"

Joel doesn't have a spare neuron to process _that_ information. His brain has latched on that word _'pet'_ and the cold fear it sparks in him. This is _Tommy,_ and he would _never_ , but there was a time when Tommy thought the same thing about him, right? This kind of shit doesn't just run in families, does it?

"Ellie," he says, his voice low and urgent, "Did Tommy do something to you?"

She seems startled. She swings down from the horse and flips the reins over its head. "No. He's got a cute little house with a guest bedroom and a white picket fence. He makes great sandwiches, and I'm sure he'd be happy to _talk out my issues_ with me once I'm _ready_. But, he's not going to take me to the Fireflies. It's too dangerous, and I guess I'm too fucking fragile."

Relief hits almost as hard as fear did. It all but staggers him. In its wake comes a dawning realization, followed by anger. He snatches the horse's reins out of her hands. His voice becomes hard and menacing. "What the _hell_ are you doing here?"

She glares up at him. "Going to Colorado. Specifically, University of Eastern Colorado, where the Firefly lab is."

"You left Tommy's."

"Obviously."

"He let you go? Or did you sneak out?"

She swallows as if she's finally seeing the storm written across his face. "I snuck out."

"And the horse? You steal it?"

"No, my fairy godmother dropped him off. Of course I stole it!"

For a moment, he's silent. Frozen. The horse is a big bay gelding. Probably a quarter horse mixed with something. He turns, leads him away a few paces, and ties the reins off to the branch of a tree. He pauses. Pats the horse. Then turns back. "What the _fuck_ are you doing here?"

She clenches her jaw and tries to glare. "You ditched me. Without even saying goodbye."

"I did that to protect you."

"Protect me from what?"

"The hell do you mean, _from what_? From _me!_ "

"Yeah? 'Cause it kind of feels like it's the other way around. You're shutting me out. You don't get to do that - not after what we've been through."

"What we've _been through?_ " He advances in a few angry steps. She tries to stand her ground, but he shoves her back with a hand across her chest. "What the fuck do you think this is?"

"Oh, besides you being a _dick_?"

"Yeah, I'm a fucking dick. You've known that since the day you met me. When, exactly, did you forget?"

"Joel . . ."

"Have you got an ounce of perspective left?" He grabs her by the front of her jacket and shakes her. "What, did you start thinking I'm your boyfriend? Your dad? Your fucking knight in shining armor? The hell is _wrong_ with you, girl?"

She slaps his hands away. "I _think_ we've got an agreement. Remember? I do whatever you want, and you take me to the Fireflies - that was the deal. Not you give up halfway through and ditch me with another perfect stranger!"

"That _stranger_ is my brother! And he happens to be the only person on this goddamn earth that I'd trust to get you where you need to go."

"Well, _you're_ the one I trust, Joel. Not Tommy. What the hell are you so afraid of?"

Joel freezes for long moments. That _is_ fear, cutting through his veins like a knife, but not the kind she's probably thinking of. No, this is more like the gut-twisting horror of watching a toddler run out into traffic. He stares down at Ellie. Her face is stubborn. Defiant. She doesn't get it. The old movies used to talk about Stockholm Syndrome, and that's what she's got. She doesn't understand that he's hurting her.

She needs to understand.

His face darkens. His eyes turn cold and hard. "You think you can _trust_ me? Because we've got an agreement? You think you know the first _thing_ about that agreement, little girl?" He makes his voice dangerously soft. She opens her mouth to respond, but he grabs her by the hair, cutting her off. "I've coddled you, Ellie! You ain't seen a fraction of what someone like me is capable of!" He knows the words are true as soon as they come out of his mouth. It ain't _Tommy_ that sees her as fragile. Joel's been treating her like his own little porcelain doll. He's been scared of breaking her, scared of _scaring_ her, scared of letting her see him for what he is. He's to blame for this mess. 

It's on him to fix it.

Any fear she's feeling is shoved down deep. Her eyes are fiery. "Why don't you show me, then, tough guy?"

She thinks she's calling his bluff - he's almost sure of that. Joel's face freezes for long moments. He doesn't remember making a decision. It feels like it was made for him. And it feels _right_ in a way that he doesn't want to think about too hard. "Yeah," he says coldly, "Maybe I should." He shoves her back a half step. "Take your fucking clothes off. Now."

She glares at him, but her breaths are coming a little faster. "So, that's how you want it? Fine." She throws her pack down, and her gun. Rips off her jacket and throws that aside too. She toys with the hem of her shirt for a moment. Her hips gyrate.

Joel rolls his eyes. "You think I care about you trying to look sexy? Get the damn clothes off." She swallows and shucks the clothes as quickly as possible. He keeps his face hard. "Now, come here." It's one last chance to back out. If she just does the sensible thing and refuses, then maybe he won't have to teach her this lesson.

She comes to him without hesitation and he knows the die is cast. He grabs the back of her neck. "On your knees." He pushes her down and just holds her there for a moment. "You think someone like me is going to give a fuck about your comfort? Your _limits_? You've been telling yourself a fantasy, girl, and I shouldn't have indulged it." He unzips and feels her cringe back. "Now, open your mouth, and don't you dare bite."

Later, maybe he'll be ashamed of how hard he is. Probably, he'll be ashamed of a lot of things, but he pushes all of that aside for now. He grips the back of her head with one hand and her jaw with the other, not giving her a chance to obey or refuse. He shoves in and doesn't bother to stifle a groan at the wet heat around his cock. "Should've done this a long time ago." He grips her hair, holding her still. His next thrust bumps against the back of her throat, making her panic and gag. He lets up just enough that she won't puke on him, then holds her there. Her hands scrabble against his thighs. "Cut that out. Or, I swear to god, I'll tie your hands." She stops struggling and just grips his jeans, trying to steady herself.

He thrusts in and out, not as deep but quick and sharp, keeping her off-balance. "Suck," he orders, "That's the deal, right? _Whatever I want?_ You gonna hold up your end of the bargain?" She looks up at him, eyes watering. She tries, but she doesn't know what she's doing. Her breath is coming quick and shallow through her nose. Saliva drips down her chin. His hand tightens in her hair, hard enough to hurt. "You think you can handle this?"

He hits the back of her throat again and the panic returns, stronger than before. She fights for real, struggling and flailing. She doesn't bite, though. He pulls out and grips her head with both hands, holding her still. "Stop it. Ellie. Settle down."

Her struggles slowly stop. She's panting for breath. He takes her chin in his hand and lifts it until she meets his gaze. His voice is a little gentler than before. "Do you understand, now? What I am?"

She looks away. Her bare shoulders sag. He's made his point - he pushed her until she fought back. He can stop, now. The lesson is over.

He doesn't want it to be over.

He shoves her back. "Fine. Hands and knees."

She's flushed and wide-eyed. "Joel . . ."

He flips her into the position he wants and drops to one knee behind her. She's so small - so easy to overpower. He feels the darkness coursing through him, unchecked, honing itself into a weapon targeting the small body. He pins her with one hand at the small of her back, spits into his other hand, and jacks himself. "You'd best relax. For your sake." He angles her hips and drives into her cunt with one sharp thrust. She's not ready, and it punches a cry that's almost a scream out of her. He holds still for a minute. "Relax. Not like there's much else you can do."

The hard clench around him doesn't loosen, but he starts to move all the same. He pistons his hips in and out, making her body rock against the broken asphalt. "This the only way to get you to listen to me?" She doesn't respond. She's letting out small grunts and gasps with each thrust. He grabs one of her arms and twists it behind her back, pushing her flat.

She's getting slick around him, despite everything. He fucks her harder, making her feel it. " _This_ is what I want from you. What I've wanted every fucking time. What do you think, Ellie? Am I a good guy? Am I somebody you can _cure_?"

He lets go of her arm but pins her down with a hand over her neck. She doesn't answer except in grunts and whimpers. He closes his eyes, losing himself in the animalistic sensation of it - of dominating, controlling, _using_. She's struggling again. He doesn't care. He leans more of his weight on her, to pin her. His hips snap forward again, again, _again_. He comes with a feral snarl.

In the wake of his orgasm comes clarity. Clarity and dawning horror as he realizes that Ellie isn't just struggling - she's fighting for her life. Her face is flushed a deep red and she's gasping for air, clawing at the hand on her neck, leaving deep fingernail gouges in his wrist. He lets go and pulls back from her abruptly. She scrambles away, turns, and curls into a ball. She coughs a few times and pants, rubbing at her neck. Red, finger-shaped bruises are already rising there. Her knees are bruised, too, and her hands are torn and bloody. There's a scrape across her cheekbone, where he shoved her face into the road. She's staring at him and there's nothing defiant or even _human_ left in her expression. It's the pure terror of a cornered animal.

He should have known, with all the lines he's crossed before. But, still. He didn't think he was capable of something like this.

Joel's breath punches out of him. "Oh . . . oh god." He approaches her cautiously and reaches for her shoulder. "I didn't . . . I didn't mean . . . god, Ellie, are you alright?"

Understanding returns. She slaps his hand away. "No," she croaks, "You don't get to do this. Not after _that._ "

He nods and backs away, giving her space. He can't meet her gaze. He'll probably never be able to do that again. He stares down at his hands. "I'm . . . I'm not _sick_. I'm a fucking monster, Ellie. I tried to hide that from you. I shouldn't have."

She stands and pulls on her clothes with shaking hands. She's pulling herself together. "Yeah," she says slowly, "Well, you're _my_ monster."

He draws a shuddering breath and zips his fly. "I'm so-"

"Don't you _fucking_ say you're sorry!" she snarls. She picks up her gun, stares at it for a moment, and tucks it into her waistband.

Joel stands slowly. "Please, just . . . just go back to Tommy's. He'll look after you. You'll be _safe_."

"And this'll all be for nothing. No thanks." She unties the horse and flips the reins up over his neck. 

"Ellie . . ."

"I'm going to Colorado." She swings up into the saddle and winces. It's a moment before she can speak again. "I want you with me, but I'll do it alone if I have to. What's it gonna be?"

She won't make it a week on her own. She could be torn apart by clickers, killed by some gang, snatched up by slavers . . . a million worse fates run through his mind. She's better off with him than without. At least he can protect her from everything else. He sighs. "Yeah." He slings his pack onto the horse's rump and ties it to the saddle. "You ride. I'll walk for now."

She's already sliding back behind the saddle. "Get on the damn horse, Joel."

"But . . ."

"We're wasting time."

He nods and mounts up. Her weight presses against his back, warm and solid. Her arms wrap around him and her hands fist in his jacket. He looks down at her scraped knuckles. Her hands are trembling. It would be _so easy_ to lay his own hand on top and squeeze gently. Except, it wouldn't be _her_ he'd be comforting - it'd be himself, and he doesn't deserve it. He looks away, lifts his head, and kicks the horse into a trot.

()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()

They're both numb with exhaustion by the time they stop for the night. Joel doesn't remember much besides wrapping himself in his bedroll and closing his eyes. When he wakes, dawn is still a few hours off and he's not quite rested. He comes to all at once, though, because there's a hand on his cock. He lets out a surprised grunt and tries to push it away, but Ellie intercepts his hand and pushes it away. "Stop." Her voice is cold.

He stares up at her, blearily. He's mostly hard, though whether that's morning wood or if she's been touching him for a while, he's not sure. "What . . ."

"Shut up, Joel."

She swings a leg over his, straddling his lap. She's naked from the waist down. She stares into his face with a fierce expression. Without another word, she angles his cock and sinks down onto him. She must've been playing with herself, because she's slick and ready, and only a little swollen. Joel closes his eyes and groans at the unexpected escalation. "Ellie . . . no."

"I _said_ shut up." She's not looking at him. Her eyes are closed. Her brow is furrowed, and he's not sure whether that's discomfort or just concentration. 

She rocks experimentally. He puts his hands on her hips, stilling her. "You don't have to do this, sweetheart."

"Oh, like I don't fucking know that?" She pushes his hands down. "Don't _touch_ me. And don't start thrusting either. Just lie there and fucking take it."

He's a lot stronger than she is. He ought to put a stop to this. She ain't thinking clearly - she'll only regret this after. Only . . . Her hands press down hard on his wrists. She's staring into his face with sharp-edged determination. She's holding on by a thread.

Maybe she needs this, fucked up as it is.

He lets his body go slack. "Okay."

She glares. "And _shut up_."

He bites his tongue and just lets her do what she wants. She grinds down onto him a few times, riding him slowly. Joel can't begin to name the emotions flickering across her face, but she's hot and tight around him. He stifles a groan. It feels like heaven, and someone like him sure doesn't belong in heaven.

Her hips pump a little faster. She bends over him, hands braced on his shoulders as if she could pin him down. He keeps himself still and silent and just stares up into her face, trying to say without words that it's okay, trying to offer comfort the only way he can. The moonlight casts dark shadows under her eyes. The scrape on her cheek looks almost black. The bruises are invisible in this light, but he knows that they're there.

She reaches down and toys with her clit and Joel has to fist his hands in the blankets to keep them still. She's riding him faster, now, all but bouncing up and down on him. She stares down into his face. After a moment, she grabs a handful of his hair. "I'm not scared of you."

He swallows and nods. Her face suddenly breaks apart as an orgasm hits her, dragging Joel along with it. He limits his response to a slurred groan as he shoots inside her. In the aftermath, she sags, panting, but doesn't pull off of him. There's steel in her face and her voice. "You can't _make me_ be scared of you."

He nods again, helplessly. After a moment, he tentatively wraps his arms around her and strokes up and down her back. She leans down into him for a minute or two, letting herself be held. Then, she abruptly pushes him away and stands. He hears her panting still as she steps back into her jeans. She stares down at him for a moment, then walks away.

Joel tucks himself away and wraps himself in a blanket. He's broken her. He knows that beyond a shadow of a doubt, but he has no idea how to go about fixing it. Fighting a deep sense of disquiet, he rolls over and tries to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys, this one was hard to write.
> 
> THE COLD SHOWER:
> 
> -Tommy and Maria's marriage might be the first non-dysfunctional relationship Ellie sees up close. It's telling that she assumes that Maria's word is final because "Maria runs this whole town." She sees relationships in terms of power dynamics and isn't really well-versed in communication or compromise.
> 
> -Ellie defending Joel when Tommy criticizes him is pretty standard behavior for someone in an abusive relationship. Ditto to her saying that Tommy is blowing things out of proportion and that she is "handling it." Likewise, her decision to go back to Joel.
> 
> -About That Scene . . . Joel displays explosive sadism here, which is different from other kinds of sadism in that it comes out without warning in times of extreme stress and the abuser feels remorse afterwards. Where most forms of sadism are associated with psychopathy and manipulative behavior, explosive sadism is associated more with borderline personality disorder (mood swings, self-image problems, intense and unstable relationships).
> 
> -Joel putting his hand on her neck is an especially disturbing sign because abusers who choke their victims are far more likely to kill them in the future than those who don't. You can argue that he was just trying to hold her down as opposed to actively trying to choke her, but it's still extremely scary behavior.
> 
> -You can argue that the last scene is non-con with Ellie as the aggressor. I don't think that's true (Joel gives verbal consent), but Ellie is coming from a messed-up frame of mind where she's intentionally not looking for consent. She's trying to engage with Joel as an equal, but the only way she knows to do that is to act out some of the violence that's been used on her. She's in a bad place right now.


	9. And I Think It's Gonna Be a Long Long Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Jackson, Joel tries to keep Ellie at a distance, and that almost hurts worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is a reference to Elton John's "Rocket Man," which is about outer space and emotional distance, and possibly addiction.

Ellie pauses by a faded green road sign. Yeah, this is what they've been looking for. "Joel."

He comes up behind her, leading the horse, and they read it together. 

_University of Eastern Colorado - 25 miles_

"What do you think?" she asks, "Noon tomorrow?"

He shakes his head. "Afternoon, maybe even evening. It's up in the mountains a little, and we'll have to walk most of the way." He pats Callus. The horse definitely made the trip easier, but they can't ride the whole way or they'll wear him out. "Not much sign of shelter between here and there."

They've already pushed it further than they should've. The sun dipped below the horizon a while ago, and night comes on fast out here. A dark rock formation catches her eye, a little ways off the road. "There." She points. "Some kind of ravine. Might have a cave?"

Joel sighs. "It's better than nothing."

It turns out to be not much more than a rocky ditch, but there's a patch of softer dirt at the bottom that protects their campfire from the wind, plus some scraggly grass that Callus goes to work on immediately. Joel and Ellie don't speak as they heat a can of beans and pass it back and forth between them. Joel's hand carefully avoids brushing hers all the while. Once they're fed, they shake out their bedrolls and lie them next to each other, with a precise foot between them. The silence feels like a truce. A ceasefire. Ellie can't quite bring herself to break it.

After dinner, she thinks Joel's just getting up to grab a little more fuel for the fire, but once he's standing behind her, his finger hooks in the collar of her jacket and tugs. Lightly. Gently. She looks back at him and he wordlessly steps back to sit on a rocky shelf. She unzips her coat. They've only been together a couple of times since . . . since Jackson, but it always starts the same way.

"How do you want me?"

His eyes are distant. His voice is almost flat. "Strip down. The whole way. Then, come sit here." He spreads his legs and pats the rock between them. 

She strips her clothes, one layer at a time, not bothering to try to be alluring about it. What would be the point? She suppresses a shiver as she lays her underwear on top of her jeans and shirt, close to the fire. At least they'll be warm, after. Winter is coming fast to the mountains. It's probably a good thing that they're almost there.

She stands to approach Joel, but he doesn't meet her eyes, just turns her by the hip and tows her down to sit between his legs. His hands aren't rough - if anything, they're scrupulously careful. Somehow, that only makes it feel worse. He says nothing. He always does this silently, now. She doesn't lean back against him, even though it would help with the chill. He's made it _very_ clear that he wants as little contact as possible. Still, certain practicalities have to be addressed. His hands announce their presence by skimming lightly down her sides, just enough that she won't jump when he reaches around and takes hold of both her breasts. He massages lightly, then a little firmer, only for a minute or so. He's just easing her into it, but her body starts to respond all the same. When, after the prerequisite minute, he slides his hand down her belly, her cunt is already starting to get wet for him.

He doesn't touch her like he's trying to tease, or pleasure, or even stimulate. He just needs a specific physiologic response. This might as well be maintenance, no different from oiling a gun. He slides two fingers between the lips of her vulva, rubs lightly over her slit for a moment, then pushes in. Her pussy opens to him, softening and stretching automatically. She's getting wetter, but that's just pure Pavlovian conditioning. He rubs lightly over her clit a few times while thrusting and stretching with two fingers, and it's not long before she's twitching and shaky. She tries to suppress her breathy gasps, though they don't seem to affect him. These days, nothing ever does.

"You ready?" His words are gruff and emotionless. They feel almost resentful, as if speaking them _cost_ him something. She bows her head and nods. "C'mon, then." His hands settle on her hips, careful again. She lets him guide her until she's straddling his legs, her back still toward him. She hears the rasp of his zipper and the rustle of clothes as he pulls himself out, then feels his cock bump against her, already hard. She adjusts the angle a little, so that he'll slide in smooth and easy, the obeys the pressure on her hips urging her to sink down. 

She can't quite stop the small hitch of breath as he breaches her and her body scrambles to rearrange itself for him. It doesn't hurt, but it's always overwhelming - always comes with that blast of too much sensation, that brain-breaking stretch, that pervasive sense of _wrongness_ that terrifies and excites her in almost equal measure. Once upon a time, the pet names would come out like this - the soft _sweethearts_ and _darlings_ that settled her and grounded her and reminded her that she was with someone who cared about her. Now, he's silent. His only concession to comfort comes in the form of a large hand that settles over her lower abdomen and a callused thumb that rubs gently, just below her navel. He gives her a few moments. He has the decency not to rush her.

When his hands move to her hips again, she follows his direction in setting up a slow, grinding rhythm. There's not much he can do from this position without risking injury. Ostensibly, she has all the control. In reality, what is she supposed to do besides follow his commands? He touches her as little as possible, even as his cock fills her. With each downward stroke, she settles onto his denim-covered lap, but he urges her up again. He guides her with one hand on her hip. It's nothing like the hunger he used to show - the deep, dark _want_ that used to terrify her so much. She's spoiled all that, or maybe he has.

She needs more. Not . . . stimulation. Not nerves firing, pushing her steadily towards orgasm. She just needs more of _him._ More openness, more gentleness, more comfort. Hesitantly, she leans back. With the angle, it's not easy and it makes his cock bump and rub a little uncomfortably in her, but by arching her back and angling her hips, she eventually manages to settle her weight back against his broad chest. Hard, warm pressure leans against the back of her skull. His forehead. After a moment, his breath huffs out, soft and warm against the back of her neck.

"Lean forward, Ellie." His voice is heavy with what she reads as regret. "C'mon, you know the rules."

Ellie doesn't budge for a moment. "It's cold," she says, by way of excuse.

He sighs and settles his hand against her shoulder blade. He pushes until she relents and leans forward. Once she's angled away from him, he reaches off to the side and fumbles for his pack. From its depths, he pulls a blanket - thin, but soft and warm, stitched of flannel. He whisks it around her shoulders and tucks it in carefully. It _does_ help with the evening chill. It's still all Ellie can do to keep from crying.

He nudges her to move again and she does it, mindlessly. She tries to focus on his touch - on the warmth and carefulness and gentleness of his hand on her hip, on the soft rub of his thumb into her shoulder blade, through the flannel. At least, he's not hurting her. At least, he doesn't want her to be cold. It's not what she wants, but when has any of this been about what she wants?

He urges her to move a little faster. He's thrusting up into her, now, and letting out little grunts with each movement. He's nearly gotten what he wants . . .

He freezes on the next stroke and lets out a loud groan, his hands tightening on her body. Ellie holds still, waiting him out. After a few moments, he slackens and leans his head against the back of her neck. She can hear his breath - raspy and panting - but she can't feel it through the blanket. He takes a minute to collect himself. The panting slows, then stops.

"Good girl."

That's all she gets, now.

He eases her off of his softening cock and settles her in front of him and finally - _finally_ \- lets her lean back against him. He presses a kiss to the top of her head, then leans his cheek against her hair. This is the only time he'll show affection, now: these quiet moments just after he's come. He says this is the only time it's _safe_ for him to do so. 

He slides his hand under the blanket and nudges her thighs apart, ready to give her the other part of her reward. Ellie closes her eyes as his fingers rub gently through the slick and seed between her legs. She's still not sure whether this part is for her or for him. She moans softly as he slides two fingers into her. He rubs over her clit. "Feel okay?" His voice is warmer than it was before. Gentler. She nods. After a moment, she turns her head and presses it into his chest, needing to feel closer to him. He understands and wraps his free arm around her, just holding her while his other hand moves slowly and deliberately. He still cares. He _does_ , even if he won't say it anymore. He wouldn't be this careful or this gentle with her if he felt nothing.

She squeezes her eyes tighter and tries to banish all thought. She focuses on her own body - on the sensations he's drawing out of her with practiced fingers. She lets that build and grow and crest and . . . _there_. She gasps as she clamps down on him. Her fingers tighten in the blanket. "Joel . . ."

He kisses the back of her head again and shushes her. His hand pulls out and pets over the outside of her thigh. He just holds her for a minute.

After a few moments that aren't nearly enough, he sighs and nudges her to stand. "Best get dressed and get to bed, Ellie. We gotta move out early tomorrow."

The moment, whatever it was, is over. She nods and mechanically pulls on layers of clothes. Once she's got her jacket on, she opens her sleeping bag and zips herself in, leaving the blanket by the fire. Joel picks it up and drapes it over her before rolling himself in blankets and closing his eyes.

Ellie stares up at the glimmering expanse of the sky as the fire flickers down to embers. That's been one silver lining to this shitty couple of weeks: the Colorado skies are more beautiful than she could've imagined. Out here, away from the lights and smog of Boston, the sky stretches out like black velvet and the stars burn down, cold and glinting and eternal. The brightest of them look like they might be hanging just above the tree line - like she could just scoop them up in her hand, almost. As the fire dies and her eyes adjust to the dark, they multiply, filling every millimeter of sky, reminding her that they go on and on forever. And against that endless expanse, she and her problems are very small. There's so much _space_ up there. So many possibilities if she could just . . . get away from all this.

She closes her eyes and falls one more time into that fantasy she's had ever since she was a kid. The purr and rumble and roar of a rocket exploding to life beneath her. The thrilling acceleration. The bumps and jolts as she clears the atmosphere. And then sunlight - real, unfiltered sunlight against her face. Darkness and possibility and peace all around her as she drifts in the silence. Free.

She opens her eyes and shakes her head. She's not the same person as that little kid who used to sneak up onto the school roof. She's come too far and done too much to still be holding onto those kinds of delusions. Space is untouchable. Her problems are down here.

She rolls onto her side and stares at Joel. He's not asleep, but he's pretending to be.

"Joel," she says quietly. His eyes open, but he doesn't look at her. "How long are you going to keep punishing me?"

Now he turns his head. His brow furrows, but not with anger. "What the hell are you talkin' about?"

"How long? It's been two weeks since . . . since Jackson, and you'll hardly look at me. What, do you want me to grovel? Apologize? Swear it'll never happen again? When's it gonna be enough?"

"Ellie . . ." Something like pain spasms across his face. He rolls onto his side, facing her. His breath is a frosty cloud between them. "It ain't . . . it ain't about punishing you." He reaches out and brushes her hair behind her ear. His fingers pause over her neck - over the bruises. There's not much left of them but faint yellow smudges, now. She'd hoped that as they faded he might soften towards her again and they could limp back towards something like normalcy, but he's kept her at arm's length ever since they woke up that morning, west of Jackson. "I'm the one that's done wrong, not you."

She swallows hard and stubbornly holds back tears. "Then, why am I the one paying for it?"

" _Ellie._ I . . . I know I can't get this right, but I am trying. I'm not punishing you. I'm trying to _protect_ you."

She doesn't bother asking _from what_. "By treating me like shit?" she whispers, "By barely talking to me? By fucking me like . . . like I'm not even there?"

He snatches his hand back and closes his eyes. "I wish it could be different."

"Then make it different! What's _wrong_ , Joel? Yeah, I know what happened after Jackson freaked you out. It freaked me out, too, but we're _fine_. Why can't you let it go?"

"I almost killed you. There's no _letting that go_." He rolls onto his back and stares up at the sky, his breath coming fast. "I wish I could stop altogether. I know I can't, but this is the closest I can get. I need to leave my emotions out of it." He rests a hand on hers and squeezes softly. "I lost perspective. I let myself get so caught up in what we were doing - in how you were making me feel - that things got twisted around. And then all that emotion got turned into anger the second you stopped minding me, and that's what brought the monster out. That's not okay. _I'm_ not okay." He rubs his thumb over the back of her hand. "I ain't safe to be around. And I can't let myself hurt you again. So, this is the only way. I gotta keep you at a distance. I can't let myself get wrapped up again."

There's a gnawing void in the pit of her stomach. Ellie feels like she's falling and falling through the dark and she can't see the bottom. "So, what?" she whispers hoarsely, "You just stopped caring about me?"

" _No_." He rolls toward her again and takes her by the shoulders. "I'm _never_ not gonna care about you, girl. But, the physical stuff . . . it had to change. There's two sides to what we have: there's caring about each other, lookin' out for one another, but then there's what we do in bed. They've gotta stay separate. It's the only way I can keep you safe."

She looks down, then back up at him. "You're not what you think you are."

He shakes his head but doesn't argue. He lets go of her and rolls onto his back. "It don't matter. We'll reach the lab tomorrow, and the Fireflies will look after you. They'll keep you safe. From me. From _everything_."

"And, that's it? I'll just never see you again?"

"If that's how it has to be."

"Joel . . ."

He turns his head and just looks at her. She closes her eyes and sighs because he's right, about that part at least. The cure is bigger than either one of them. It's a lot more important than her fucking feelings, and if getting this done means giving up the one person in the world who still gives a shit about her, then that's just how it has to be. Even if the thought of his _absence_ hurts worse than his distance, worse even than his anger.

"Go to sleep, Ellie," he says gently, "I think . . . it's all gonna work out, somehow. You're gonna be okay."

He turns away from her. Ellie opens her eyes and stares up at the stars. At _peace_ , only light years and light years away. Her breath frosts out, casting a haze over it all.

She scoots her bedroll closer to Joel and wraps her arms around him. He tenses. "Ellie . . ."

"Shut up, Joel," she whispers, trying to keep the emotion out of her voice, "It's cold as fuck out here."

He stays tense and rigid for another moment, then sighs and turns. He folds his blankets over her, wraps her in his arms, and buries his face in her hair.

When morning comes, she's not really surprised by either the tear tracks on her cheeks or the wet spot on the top of her head. It doesn't matter. It's time to move on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is very much appreciated. There will probably be a delay before the next update. The next chapter picks up after That Thing That Happens at the University and it looks like the chapter will be pretty long.
> 
> THE COLD SHOWER:
> 
> -In his attempt to "protect her," Joel has accidentally fallen face-first into emotional withholding, which can be a very nasty form of emotional abuse when it's done to punish someone. I don't think that's the case with Joel - he doesn't blame Ellie and just doesn't have the coping skills or emotional intelligence to deal with this - but it has that effect on Ellie.
> 
> -About that lack of coping skills . . . Joel is terrified of losing her, especially now that he knows how much it's gonna hurt. He's distanced himself partly because he thinks it'll help with his self-control but also because he's trying to avoid pain.
> 
> -Joel is very troubled by his behavior in the last chapter, but he's misdiagnosed the cause of it. He felt himself start to care about Ellie and assumed there was a direct correlation between the intensity of his feelings towards her and the intensity of his anger when she defied his wishes by leaving Jackson, but he didn't consider the actual root problem in their relationship which is him not granting her autonomy. She never gets to make any of her own decisions because he's convinced he knows what's best for her. That prompted his outburst in the last chapter, and he's continuing this behavior here.
> 
> -On a related note, despite having sex with her, Joel doesn't really see Ellie as a sexual being. Because of her age, he can't quite wrap his head around the idea of her making her own decisions where sex is concerned. So, with the exception of the brief scene at the end of the last chapter, he continues to dictate what they do and how and under what circumstances, which is just . . . not how that's supposed to work. Power differentials are bad, folks, and they get worse if the person in power is clueless.
> 
> -Joel does get points for opening up to Ellie when she calls him on his behavior, but he loses BIG POINTS for implying that her behavior "brought the monster out." He doesn't intend to cast blame on her and he is trying to own up to his mistakes, but that could've easily strayed into victim-blaming behavior.
> 
> -Apologies to anyone who hoped that after the last chapter Ellie would start to harness her inner khaleesi and they'd fall madly in love. This is just not that kind of story.
> 
> -I almost added a warning for emotional abuse to this chapter but didn't because I don't think Joel is intending to cause harm. Let me know if you think it needs one and I would be happy to update.


	10. What Dreams May Come

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After his injury in Colorado, Joel struggles with past ghosts, from Boston and before. Ellie faces a decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay in getting this up. Real life has been nuts, plus I've hit a tricky part in the story, which might just piss a lot of people off.
> 
> Heed the updated tags, including the relationship tags. This isn't going to be everybody's cup of tea.
> 
> This is the first chapter that doesn't have sex of any kind in it, but it could still be potentially triggering. There is much discussion of injuries, violence, and some squicky medical stuff. In particular, this features the aftermath of a violent rape (although Joel was not the perpetrator and Ellie was not the victim) as well as discussion of prostitution and addiction.

After, Joel feels like a fool for thinking it would be as simple as dropping Ellie off at the university and walking away. They find the lab, but it's an echoing tomb with only dark hints as to the fate of the Fireflies. They're almost ready to give up by the time they find the notes about Salt Lake City, but before they have a minute to process that, they're being shot at because _of course_ , and then there's no time for anything but survival.

They almost make it out, but Joel just has to get sloppy. He should've checked the door before just trying to plow through it. Stupid. The hunter catches him off guard and slams him into the balcony railing and all he can do is make sure he takes the asshole with him when he's thrown over the edge.

Hitting the ground feels like a car crash. First, there's just the bone-jarring impact thudding through his whole body. Then, a soft, painless moment that only lasts a couple of heartbeats but feels much longer as the world goes dark around the edges and almost fades out. Then, the burst of pain exploding through him from no obvious source - angry, directionless pain.

His hands are wet. He forces his eyes to focus and finally notices the rebar. It's slick and dripping red, like his hands, and it's sticking right out of his gut.

_Oh_ , he thinks dimly, _So, this is how it happens_.

But, he doesn't have time to feel sorry for himself because the job's not done. Ellie is climbing down to him, panicking, and he wants to tell her to run, but there's no time. Footsteps down the hallway. He has to keep her safe. Two more hunters crash through the door and he shoots them, mostly on muscle memory. There'll be more coming, he knows. He has to get her out. He has to keep her safe - that's what he promised her and what he promised himself.

He remembers another night, another life. Crashing cars and burning streets and panicked crowds. Gunshots in the dark. He pushes the thought away. He's not going to fail again. He won't.

All the pain he missed out on gets paid back to him a hundredfold when she hauls him off the rebar. Darkness chips away at the edges of his vision, but he can't pass out, so he doesn't. He's getting them out of here. He'll carry her if he has to.

He stays on his feet but can't manage more than a drunken stagger through the halls. It's all wrong. _Carry her_. Hell, she's practically carrying _him_. He's slowing her down. He ought to tell her to go - to run and get to the horse and leave him, but it ain't safe out there and he _has_ to see her to safety.

She almost dies for him twice. Kills for him three times. It's all wrong but it don't matter because they make it to the horse and he somehow hauls his rotting carcass up onto it and she hops up behind and they're gonna make it. He clings to consciousness and to the horse's neck. The clatter of hooves on asphalt rattles through him, setting off hot, rhythmic flashes of pain through his gut, but he can feel her weight behind him and her arms wrapping around him. The pain tells him that she's still there.

They made it out. It was messy and ugly and violent, like everything in his horror show of a life, but the sun's coming up, and this time there's no body to bury. He's got her as far as he can. Now, she'll be safe from him, at least. It's something.

He stops fighting. His muscles go slack and he can feel himself falling again. The ground thuds through him, but the pain is already fading. Nothing left to do but sleep and not wake up.

()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()

A knock on the door of his Boston apartment made Joel sit bolt upright in bed. A long pause followed, where he wondered if he'd imagined it or if it was gunshots instead. Then, another knock. Three quick, urgent beats.

He stood, shoved his legs into boxers, and grabbed his revolver from the bedside table. FEDRA probably would have kicked the door down by now and most of his . . . professional rivals wouldn't have bothered knocking, but it never hurt to be careful. He closed the bedroom door behind him, crossed the small, cluttered living room, and put an eye to the peep hole. A moment later, he pulled back the deadbolt and yanked the door open.

The girl outside was probably sixteen - even she didn't know for sure. She didn't spring into womanhood quite as quickly as Joel expected, but she still looked a decade older than the last time he saw her. Something about the haunted look in her gray-blue eyes. Or maybe the blue-black swelling puffing one of those eyes completely closed. "I didn't know where else to go," she whispered through torn, swollen lips, "He's gonna kill me."

Joel swallowed. "Shit, Amie." He reached for her face and turned her jaw back and forth, inspecting the damage. Counting the bruises. She let him do it. She was almost leaning into his hand. He snatched it back and looked away. He ought to close the door right in her face. Nothing good could come of getting involved in whatever mess she was in.

He stepped back and jerked his head. "C'mon."

She stepped into the living room, glancing around to note the small changes in furniture. Her eyes took in the stacked crates of canned food and extra batteries. "You moving a shipment?"

He merely grunted.

"Working with your brother on this one?"

Joel's face twisted and he snapped the deadbolt back into place. "Tommy skipped town six months ago. And my _shipments_ are none of your concern."

Her face tightened. "Sorry."

"Wait here." Joel forced down all the disquiet he was feeling and stepped back into the darkened bedroom.

The girl in his bed was a couple years younger than Amie, and fast asleep. He sat on the bed, making the springs creak, and shook her bare shoulder gently. "Dee. Wake up, honey." Her brown eyes opened and she rolled toward him. As soon as sleep left her face, caution replaced it. This was only his third time with her, and she was still a bit intimidated. He kept his face soft. "Something's come up. I need you to go back to Vince's place early."

Real fear replaced the caution and she bit her lip. "But . . ."

"Now, you didn't do anything wrong. I still want to see you for our date on Friday. I just need to take care of something right now. If Vince gives you any shit, send him to me."

She nodded and let him help her back into her dress and panties. He held out her coat and she stuffed her arms through the sleeves. "You go straight home, now, you hear? Ain't safe out in the streets."

She looked out through the slats in the boarded up window, lit dimly by the white glow of search lights. "What if the soldiers stop me?"

If the feds stopped her, they'd put her into one of those military schools. Wouldn't be the worst thing, but she wouldn't see it that way, and neither would Vince. Joel grabbed her normal wages off of his dresser and added five more ration cards to the stack. "They stop you, you pay them off. An' if they don't, you _save_ that. Don't give it to Vince and don't spend it on something frivolous. You never know when you might need it."

That settled her a little bit and she didn't resist as Joel draped an arm around her shoulders and steered her out the door. She looked up curiously at Amie, standing in the kitchenette, but Joel hustled her past and out into the hallway before she could get more than a glimpse. After the door closed behind her and he deadbolted it again, Joel paused and sighed. Then, he gathered himself and turned to face Amie.

Her hair was still a mousy brown, but she'd cut most of it off. What was left floated to her chin in soft waves. She was shifting from foot to foot, anxiously, the same way she did when she was twelve. "Sorry. I didn't know you had a date. You didn't have to make her leave."

He grunted. "I'm not looking to scare the shit out of her."

"She one of Vincent's girls?"

"She's none of your concern. Who are _you_ running with, these days?"

Amie ducked her head. She wasn't dressed for work. Instead, she wore a blue plaid shirt that hung loosely and tan cargo pants that were almost falling off her narrow hips. "Joey," she said quietly.

"Joey _Marinelli_? I told you to stay away from that asshole!"

"I didn't have much choice, okay?"

His lips tightened. He gestured at her battered face. "A john do that?"

She ducked her head and shook it, slowly.

"Joey, then."

She didn't deny it, and that was as good as an admission.

Joel scowled. What a fucking mess.

She looked up at him through her eyelashes. "I just need a place to lie low for a couple of days. I can pay you for it."

He arched an eyebrow. "Yeah? You got a stack of ration cards to help with the rent?"

"I'll . . . I'll do whatever you want."

"Those days are over for us, girl. I told you that a long time ago."

" _Please,_ Joel."

He clenched his jaw and relented. "There's food in the cupboard." Without another word, he turned to the bedroom and went to put on some pants.

By the time he returned, fully clothed, Amie had found a can of tuna and was sitting at the table, tearing into it. Joel glanced at his ticking watch. It was so late it might as well be early. He grabbed another can of tuna along with a pack of crackers and two bottles of water. Amie accepted the water with cautious thanks and grabbed a handful of crackers. Joel settled into the chair across from her, opened his own can, and spread some tuna on a saltine, eating with less desperation. "Joey kick you out?"

She shook her head without looking up.

"You had to run, then."

"Yeah."

"When?" He was pretty sure he knew. The bruises on her face weren't more than a day old.

"Last night, right after curfew."

"You tell anybody where you were going?"

"No."

" _Amie_. Could anybody track you here?"

"I didn't tell anybody, okay? I tried Vince first, but he said I'm too old."

Joel sighed. "Don't know what you were expecting."

She took a swig of water and wiped at the red-tinged saliva that escaped her damaged lips. "I just need a couple of days to figure something out. A week, tops. And, I can pay my way."

"We've had this conversation already."

"Look, if I'm too old for you, that's _fine_. I can go out and find work and give you my earnings. Only . . ."

"Only _what_?"

She winced and looked away. "It might have to wait a couple of days. I'm . . . I'm pretty torn up down there."

Joel's jaw tightened and he tasted bile in the back of his throat. Of course she was. Marinelli was a fucking animal. "You clean yourself up yet?"

She shifted guiltily in a way that meant 'no.'

"Well, you need to. You don't want to be dealing with an infection." His tuna can was half empty, but he wasn't hungry anymore. He pushed the rest of it toward her and stood. "Water's on. It ain't hot, but it's better than nothing. I'll draw you up a bath."

"Joel!" Her voice stopped him when he was halfway to the bathroom, but he didn't turn. "Thanks. For not just shutting the door in my face."

He closed his eyes and allowed his face to twist with disgust at himself. That was what passed for decency, to her. And it was probably more than she'd seen in a while. "Don't thank me yet. Getting you fixed up ain't gonna be pleasant."

While she polished off the tuna, he filled the stained bathtub and did his best to lay out what might be needed. Soap. Rags and washcloths. Bandages. A fifth of vodka. She pushed the door open cautiously. Now that the adrenaline from being out in the streets was wearing off, he could see her starting to limp. She stumbled a little at the threshold and had to catch herself on the vanity. Her hands toyed with the buttons of her shirt, but she didn't start stripping yet. "Thanks. I can handle it from here."

Joel shook his head. "You look like a stiff breeze would knock you over."

"I'm _fine_."

"I don't want you cracking your head and bleeding all over the tile. C'mon, girl, it's nothing I haven't seen before."

Her face was skeptical, but she unbuttoned her shirt and let it drop. The pants were held up by a belt of rope. Both they and the shirt smelled like she'd gotten them out of a homeless colony. Joel wondered what she was wearing when she fled the flophouse. They'd need a good scrub, at minimum. He focused on the clothes, and what it would take to get them presentable, because that was easier to handle than the red and purple splotches that marred the skin below. The worst bruising was over her ribs. She'd been kicked, repeatedly. Blood had dried in rivulets down her thighs. The rag between her legs was stuck to her, and she gasped when she pulled it off. The copper tang of blood reached Joel's nose, mixed with the stale musk of sex.

Joel kept his face expressionless by force of will. He beckoned. "C'mon, sweetheart. Careful you don't slip." He took her by the elbow and steadied her as she stepped into the tub. She flinched at the cool water, but didn't resist as he eased her down into it. When the water touched her cunt, her face tightened, then slowly relaxed. Red started to radiate out through the water, like ghostly tentacles. She leaned forward, bowed her head to her knees, and wrapped her arms around herself.

Joel grabbed the cup he used to brush his teeth, scooped up some water, and poured it over her back. He hadn't bathed a girl since . . . he slammed the door on memories of bubble baths and baby shampoo. That had _nothing_ to do with this. He touched Amie's shoulder gently, noting that she was thinner than he remembered. Her ribs curved out of her body like ocean waves and he could feel the knobs of her spine. Here, he found evidence of a more . . . targeted, premeditated sort of beating. She wasn't lying to him. She didn't get mugged. He could see the imprints of the belt buckle here and there, and the skin was split in a few places, on top of the multitude of bruises. They must've stripped her first, for it to cut like that.

The wounds weren't bleeding and they didn't need stitches, so he just soaped a washcloth and sponged gently, washing away the grime and the fear sweat. Once her back was clean, she let him slowly unfold her from her protective huddle to wash her limbs, one at a time. The bathwater quickly turned a rust red. Despite her earlier insistence that she could handle it, she made no move to wash herself.

He wasn't entirely surprised to find track marks on her arm. He furrowed his brow. "I told you to stay away from that shit."

She shrugged. "Joey makes us. It's supposed to make it better for the customers."

"Bullshit."

"It's not like I had a choice."

He sighed. "I'm not havin' any of that here."

"I figured."

"You gonna get sick?"

"Maybe a little. Should pass in a day."

So, it wasn't her first time on and off of the hard stuff. Joel's hands wanted to shake, but he forced them to stay steady as he tipped her head back. "Close your eyes, sweetheart." She stayed still as he washed her hair and drew the soapy washcloth over her chest and belly. Her breasts weren't much larger than they used to be, but they had more shape to them. They were soft under his hands and the nipples stayed perked from the cold. Joel had never really lost the appreciation for a woman's body - he just never felt any desire to act on it anymore - but he didn't react to her even in the most base, physiological sense. He felt sick and half wanted to believe his cock would just shrivel up and never stir again, though he knew that was self-delusion.

He nudged her legs apart because there was no putting this off any longer. "Lean back. Grip the sides of the tub. That's a good girl." She spread her legs obediently but kept her eyes shut as he probed her vulva with gentle fingers. It was badly swollen, bruised, and scraped. Fresh blood was still staining the water and seeping under his fingernails. He sighed. "Some of these will need to be stitched." She nodded, short and sharp. He stood, knees creaking, and held out a hand. "C'mon. Let's get this over with."

She took his hand and accepted a towel to dry herself. "I can handle it."

"I very much doubt that." While she dried herself off, Joel pulled out the sewing thread and doused a curved needle with vodka. At his urging, she sat on the lid of the toilet, towel tucked around and over her shoulders like a blanket. Joel offered her the vodka. "Just a little. For the pain." She swigged the equivalent of two shots and then reluctantly gave it back. He knelt at her feet and gently pulled her knees apart. "Lean back and hold still for me, sweetheart. This is gonna sting."

First, he wiped over the torn and puffy skin with an alcohol-soaked rag, being careful to spread her lips and clean every crevice. She limited her response to one pained hiss. He tapped a finger softly over her anus. It looked okay, but . . . "Did they hurt you here?"

She shook her head, eyes closed. "Fuckers ran out of stamina."

"That's something, at least." He grabbed a bottle of mineral oil from the counter and slicked a finger. "I need to check inside. Make sure they didn't tear anything. Just relax, baby, it's only gonna take a minute."

She accepted his finger sliding into her cunt with the same stoicism she'd shown when she was twelve. He kept the exam careful and brief. After just a few seconds, he pulled out. "Just swollen, I think." He picked up the needle and threaded it. "Now, hold still. Let me know if you need something to bite down on."

He started with a tear to the outer labia. She gasped, but didn't flinch at the prick of the needle. After a moment, she let out a pained laugh. "Y'know," she said in a voice torn through with sarcasm, "You could just stitch me all the way back up while you're there. Then, maybe I'd be young enough for you again."

Joel kept the flinch from his face. He deserved that, even if she didn't mean it as an insult. "It don't work that way. You know that."

"Yeah," she said quietly, "I know. I just miss it, is all."

He snorted skeptically.

"I didn't know how good I had it. I was so fucking spoiled back then."

"Trust me, you weren't. Not the way you mean, at least."

"You never hurt me. And when I was yours, everybody else was too scared to lay a finger on me too."

He kept his eyes on his work and didn't respond. No, he never hit her - never left a mark besides a few drops of blood the night he held her down and popped her cherry. All he did was pet her and stroke her hair and tell her she was _such a good girl_ for him, that she was taking him _so nice_ , that her pussy felt _so good_ , like it was _made for him_ , like she was _made for this._ Was it any wonder she ended up believing him?

When she was as patched up as he could get her, he fetched a tee shirt and a pair of his boxers for her to wear. While she got dressed, he straightened up a little. Her clothes would have to be washed. The rags he used to clean her up, too - decent cloth was way too valuable to pitch. "C'mon," he said, "Couple hours left before dawn. Let's get some rest."

She followed him into the bedroom. He didn't even have a couch, but it hardly mattered. "I can sleep on the floor," she offered, "I mean, if you don't want . . ."

"I don't, but get in the bed." He nudged her over toward the wall, then stretched out beside her, not bothering to remove his jeans. This way, at least, she wouldn't be getting past him to sneak out and get a hit. He closed his eyes.

"Joel?" Her voice was shaking. "Are you sure you don't want . . ." She touched his hip. "I could just use my hand."

He pushed her away. "Go to sleep, girl."

She obeyed almost immediately. She was spent, and god only knew when the last time was that she could lay her head down with anything resembling safety. He stared at her. What a fucking mess. _His_ mess. No, he didn't get her into this life - she'd been giving out blowjobs and handies in back alleys for six months before she caught his eye - but he sure as hell kept her in it. He shook his head. No point in dwelling on it. All he could do now was try to limit the damage.

"So, that's how it is, huh?"

His eyes pop open and he freezes. The voice in his ear is a low whisper, soft and lilting. A girl's voice. Not a true Texas twang, but trending that way.

"You gonna take care of her, Daddy?"

He turns his head, slowly.

"Like you took care of _me_?"

All he sees is the small hand holding a knife. Ellie's knife. Then, it swings down and pain rips through his stomach and all he can do is scream.

()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()

"Joel? _Joel?!!_ "

He's coming around. His scream cuts off and his eyes open blearily. Ellie slumps with relief. "You scared the shit out of me!"

His face clenches shut. He clutches at his belly. She grabs his hands and tries to force them down. "Cut that out. Stitches, remember? You can't pop your stitches." For a second, she's worried he's completely delirious again, but after a moment he slumps into the mattress and nods. 

He's been in and out for days, and when he's out, it seems like the nightmares are getting bad. Every few hours, he gets bouts of bone-rattling shivers until he's burning up with fever. The ugly wound on his belly looked okay when Ellie first stitched it, but now it's swollen and oozing red fluid. She doesn't need a doctorate to know it's infected. He needs a _hospital_ , but the best she's been able to find is this frost-rimed basement where at least they're out of the wind.

"Here." She grabs a half-empty can of peaches off a shelf. "You need to eat something." She scoops up one of the peaches with a spoon, but he turns his head away. She growls. "C'mon, Joel! Or, I swear to god, I'm gonna start making choo-choo noises."

He shakes his head. "No use," he mutters, "I'd jus' puke it back up."

She ducks her head and resists the urge to throw the spoon. "Okay. Okay, we'll try again later."

"No."

"What do you mean, _no_?"

"You eat it."

"Pssh . . . I'm not even hungry."

"Ellie, when was the last time you ate?"

She looks away because the answer is _yesterday morning_ , and she's positive he can see that in her face. Well, she's no good to him - or to _anyone_ \- if she lets herself get too weak to move. "Fine." She takes a bite. "But, only if you promise to try and drink something."

He nods a little and closes his eyes.

When there's only one peach slice left in the can, Ellie sets it aside and grabs the canteen. Joel's hair is stiff with dried sweat. She supports his head and raises the water to his lips, trying not to notice how pale and wasted his face is. His lips are cracked from dehydration, but he can only take a few sips of water before sputtering and turning away. She sits back. "Weather's okay today. I'm gonna check out those houses down the ridge. Might be able to find some alcohol to clean out your wound."

Joel shakes his head. "The infection's inside. Needs antibiotics."

"I'll do what I can. Anything with ' _cillin'_ or ' _mycin'_ in the name, right?"

He sighs, then winces at the pressure it puts on his abdomen. "Ellie . . . you might have to move on."

"No way. You're way too sick to move."

"I ain't gettin' better."

"Well, what do you expect when you won't eat?"

"Ellie . . ." He reaches for her hand. "People don't just come back from these kind of wounds."

She yanks her hand back. "Don't talk like that."

"Sweetheart . . ."

"No! I'm not leaving you."

"And what about your mission, huh? The Fireflies. Salt Lake City. That was the whole reason you came back to me, right?"

She scowls. "I know what you're doing. Stop it."

"Ellie . . ."

"No. You're not gonna make me feel guilty for giving a shit about you. It's not gonna happen. Save your breath."

He closes his eyes and shakes his head. "Sweetheart, the world ain't gonna mourn me when I'm gone. And I don't want you to, either."

"Yeah, well, we don't always get what we want." She climbs to her feet and slings the bow over her shoulder. "I'm gonna check out the houses and maybe do some hunting afterwards. I think I saw deer tracks yesterday." She stuffs her handgun into her waistband. "Don't you _dare_ be dead when I get back."

He nods ever so slightly. She grabs the mostly-empty can and trudges up the stairs.

Callus is tethered out back. He's lipping aimlessly at the snow-covered ground, trying to dig up a few brown stalks of grass. When he sees Ellie, he comes to her at once and noses at her chest and belly. She scoops the last bit of fruit out of the can. "Here, buddy. It's the last can, but you've earned it." He lips up the peach eagerly, leaving saliva on Ellie's hand. She strokes his neck and twines her fingers through his mane. His coat has turned thick and shaggy, but it's not quite enough to keep out the cold. There's a little shed in the yard where she can keep him out of the weather, but she doesn't have any bedding for him. The lean winter has been harsh on all of them. The bones stand out in the backs of Ellie's hands, but not as starkly as the ribs on Callus's side. She tries to find time and space for him to graze every day, but they're high up in the mountains and the only green comes from pine needles and rusted old cars. He can't go on like this much longer.

She leans her face into his shoulder and takes out her 9mm. It's the kindest thing to do. He's suffering. Starving. She doesn't think he can make it much longer. And . . . she feels sick just thinking about it, but he's over nine hundred pounds. If . . . if she can get through this, she can just tell Joel she bagged a deer. There's weeks of winter left, and Joel won't be ready to move any time soon. Callus could save them.

No.

She puts her gun away. She's not doing that - she's not just gonna give up. Callus and Joel got her this far - she's gonna get them the rest of the way to Salt Lake City. She grabs the horse's saddle and tacks him up. "It's okay, dude. We're okay. What do you say we go find some lunch for both of us?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a monster of a chapter planned, which would've spent a lot more time with Ellie, but once the draft hit thirty pages, I realized I wasn't getting that all done in one go. The next chapter will focus on Ellie and should be up soon.
> 
> THE COLD SHOWER   
> (I feel like I should call it something else for this chapter. "The warm hug"? All of my characters need a hug.)
> 
> -We don't really understand how widespread "pimps" are in the underage sex trade in the US. Older estimates suggest that anywhere from 85-90% of underage girls in sex work have pimps, while newer studies claim as little as 10-15% with the rest being "freelancers." Regardless, FEDRA-controlled Boston isn't really comparable to a modern developed country due to there being so many orphaned and vulnerable children and so few resources to support them. It's more like a war zone.
> 
> -Sex workers turn to pimps for a variety of reasons - shelter, food, protection, sometimes just increased business opportunities. Children can sometimes be trafficked against their will, but that's not really the norm - most are runaways who need a place to stay and don't have other options. Obviously, any relationship between a child and their pimp is abusive and unequal, whether they were forced into prostitution or not.
> 
> -Pimps often (but not always) use a variety of abusive and isolating tactics to keep control including threats, verbal abuse, physical violence, sexual violence, encouraging drug dependency, withdrawal of affection, social isolation, the list goes on. This is in addition to financial abuse, which is almost universal. And, like any abusive relationship, the most dangerous time for the victim is right after they leave.
> 
> -Joel makes brief reference to the fact that, under normal circumstances, he would be aroused by adult or older teenage women. This is common in men who turn to child sex abuse as adults (and has been confirmed by some very squicky medical studies, which I'll spare you the details on). He doesn't have relationships with adult women due to psychological issues, not physical ones.
> 
> -Amie is absolutely not a reliable narrator when it comes to her past with Joel. The girl has seen some shit and experienced some trauma bonding with Joel, both because he was her first and because he treated her better than most. That's still affecting her, even years later, and her nostalgia for the good old days is not healthy.
> 
> -Both with Amie and (over and over again) with Ellie, Joel experiences moments where he's reminded of Sarah and pushes that away immediately. He never abused her, but he sees part of her in every girl he's abused since, and her death really is at the center of his Issues.


	11. Pet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ellie meets a predator who reminds her of Joel in all the worst ways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heed the updated tags. This is . . . not a nice chapter.

If Ellie was the religious type, she'd probably call the deer a gift from the heavens. Or maybe a karmic reward for sparing Callus. As it is, she's just worried about how she's going to drag all seventy-odd pounds of it back the three miles to where she left the horse. Her best bet is probably to field dress it, quarter it, and take it back in pieces. She pulls out her knife, wishing she had a more substantial tool for the job. She checks the position of the sun. It's not noon yet. Good - this looks like several hours of work, but the prospect of an actual meal at the end makes it more than worth it.

Ellie squats by the buck, checks that it's dead, and rolls it onto its back. She'll have to force some of this down Joel's throat. Maybe she can boil some bones, make a broth. She has only a vague idea of what goes into a broth, but necessity is the mother of invention, right?

She tries to focus on those logistics - how to transport the deer, how to cook it, how long its meat might last. Anything to distract her from the conversation with Joel that's been dogging her all morning. Her hands shake as she splits the deer's belly and she wishes she could blame that on cold or hunger or something besides fear. Joel's not the type to get dramatic about a wound. If he says it's bad then it's bad. If he's talking about the end of the line, then she needs to be prepared to lose him.

But, is she prepared to _leave_ him? As soon as the thought crosses her mind she rejects it, sharply and viscerally. They've been through too much together. She can't just leave him when they're almost at the finish line. And, yeah, he's a . . . complicated person, but she owes him her life so many times over. He's seen her safely through bloodbaths from Boston to UEC, and whatever his faults, he deserves better than dying alone and in pain in some freezing cold basement.

Deep down, though, she knows that all that rationalization is just another layer of shields. Her immediate, gut-churning response to the thought of leaving him has nothing to do with his worthiness as a person and everything to do with how much it would hurt. She _can't_ lose him. Not after everything he's put her through. She's not going to let him just disappear from her life.

Wasn't that always the plan, though? He gets her to the Fireflies and then he walks away? It's not as though Marlene would let her keep sharing a bed with a fifty-year-old once they make it to Salt Lake. It's not as though she even wants to, so why does the thought of never seeing him again feel like a punch to the solar plexus? He's right. Her mission is more important than either of them. This is about saving the world.

When did it become about something else?

There's blood on her hands, making her fingers slippery as she tries to cut through the buck's ribs. Lost in her reverie, she barely sees it. So, it shouldn't be much of a surprise that she misses other important details, too. She doesn't notice the man approaching until his shadow slides across the deer's fur and casts a chill over the back of her neck. She freezes for a moment, then spins, knife slashing out at knee-height, but before she can strike home, the stock of a rifle catches her across the face knocking her to the side. She has a brief impression of a burly young man in dark clothes and a ski cap before he's on her, wrestling for the knife. She screams and bites down hard on his wrist, making him yelp and giving her just that half second she needs to twist away and spring to her feet, leaving the knife in the snow. 

She sprints for the cover of the tree line, fumbling for the 9mm in her waistband, but before she's quite pulled herself together, a second man tackles her to the ground. She twists and kicks, but he pins her leg with his knee. "Now, that's enough." His voice is oddly soft and breathy.

"Get off of me, motherfucker!" She drives a knee up into his gut, but it doesn't draw more than a grunt from him. She struggles, but he's got her arms pretty well trapped. He's a little smaller than the other guy, and older, but wiry and strong.

"Settle down, girl. You're not getting out of this one." She spits in his face, but he doesn't even flinch. He's probably right that fighting is pointless, but she doesn't see a lot of alternatives besides lying down and dying. She claws at his wrists with her nails, snarls a curse without really thinking about it, and tries to drive her foot up between his legs. He catches both her wrists in one hand and pins them above her head.

It happens way too fast. One second she's twisting and struggling, trying to kick him in the balls, the next he gets the angle to pin her leg, his hips lock down over hers, and some ingrained, _programmed_ part of her brain whispers _relax_. Automatically - _involuntarily_ \- her muscles slacken. Her body sinks into the snow and her eyes flick to his face. She realizes what she's done after a few heartbeats and tries to flail and struggle again, but it's too late. He's seen.

"So, that's how it is, huh?" He settles his hips more firmly over hers and cups her chin lightly with his free hand.

She twists and tries to bite. "Fuck you!"

He doesn't get mad - just slides his hand down a few inches and squeezes. Black spots explode immediately across her vision. Ellie panics and fights, but he's too strong. She can feel her pulse struggling to push past his tightening fingers. The world seems to rock and sway under her. She's weakening, fast, but fear keeps her fighting. "Easy," he breathes, "It's okay, girl. You're okay."

She opens her mouth to call him a fucking liar, but darkness takes her before she can get the words out.

()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()

Ellie comes to in stages. 

She becomes aware of pressure on her wrists, then rough canvas under her cheek, but before she can force herself to wakefulness, she slips back into the dark.

The next time, her eyes open blearily - just a crack. All she can see for a moment is a swirl of white and red. She blinks and it resolves into something out of a horror movie. Blood staining the snow. Intestines slapping to the ground. A foul smell. The deer. She fades out again.

The third time, her hearing comes back first, and she has the wherewithal to keep her eyes closed.

" . . . just a kid."

"Be that as it may." She recognizes the older guy's soft voice.

"Look, can't we just . . . do what we've gotta do?"

"Not yet. We've got some questions for the young lady. You know that."

" _David_. . ."

"You focus on dressing that buck. We'll head back once she's awake."

She cautiously explores her new circumstances. She's lying on her side with her arms behind her and her head pillowed on her pack. She tries to roll her shoulders and feels rope tugging at her wrists. Twitches her feet and finds more of the same at her ankles. She opens her eyes just a crack. The younger guy is up to his armpits in the deer carcass. He's hauling out the stomach but leaving the heart, liver, kidneys, everything that's even marginally edible. The other man - _David_ \- stands off to the side. He has a rifle slung over one shoulder and Ellie's bow over the other. Ellie checks her waistband, but naturally her 9mm is gone. Buddy Boy probably has it in his jacket.

David turns and she hurries to close her eyes. She tries to keep her breathing normal while listening to his footsteps crunching in the snow. He squats in front of her. "That's enough. I know you're awake."

There's not much point in keeping up the pretense. Ellie opens her eyes, glares at him, and tries to sit up. She doesn't realize how woozy she is until she feels the ground start to spin again. He catches her by the shoulders and steadies her. "Take it easy." He uncaps a water bottle and raises it to her lips, but she twitches away. He takes a quick swig himself. "It's not poisoned, you know."

She scowls and spits on the ground between them.

He sits back on his haunches. "What's your name?"

The side of her face is throbbing where the other guy hit her. She can feel a trickle of blood make its way down her cheek. "Go fuck yourself."

He lifts an eyebrow. "That what your mother called you, is it?"

She keeps her face hard. He might think he knows what she is, but she's got him pegged too.

He pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and presses it gently against her cheekbone. She doesn't move. Can't let him think she's afraid of him. "Sorry about all this. Didn't seem like you were in a state of mind to listen to reason."

"Yeah, because you're so fucking reasonable."

He cocks his head slightly. "Dangerous place, dangerous time . . . you can't fault us for taking precautions. I think you'd have done the same, in our position. In fact, I know it."

The goons at the lab. They had to have come from somewhere. She stares straight at him and makes no attempt to respond.

He glances back at the deer. "You're a pretty good shot with that bow."

"I've had a lot of practice."

"I'm sure. What are you doin' out here all on your own?"

"Practicing."

He half smiles. "Anybody know you're out here?"

"Yeah."

"Where've you been staying?"

"Wouldn't you like to know."

He pulls a knife from his pocket and she tenses, but all he does is cut the rope around her ankles. "We've got a settlement a couple miles out. Lot of infected between here and there. Stay close and you'll be fine." He helps her to her feet and slings her pack over his shoulder. The rope around her wrists features a long, trailing leash, which he wraps around his hand. "C'mon. We'll get you cleaned up when we get back to town. James, help me with the big fellow." 

The other guy - James - glances at Ellie, then down at his feet. He and David each grab an antler and between the two of them they can haul the deer pretty easily. There's not much Ellie can do besides play along and bide her time. They're heading south, past a cluster of abandoned industrial buildings. She follows along and takes careful note of every landmark. She has to be able to find her way back, somehow.

The sun is almost directly overhead and Ellie is chilled through by the time they reach an inhabited settlement. With her bare hands tied behind her, she can't stuff them in her pockets or inside her coat. Her fingertips are turning blue as they reach a street that's partially cleared of snow. There's a couple of rusted cars blocking the road. A barrier. David whistles sharply and a couple of sentries pop up from hiding, rifles in hand. They're both men, and the larger looks like he's about Joel's age. His face pales a little when he looks at Ellie, but his voice is gruff. "You made it. Only, I thought you were bringing back food."

David tosses the deer to the ground. "We did. That's a solid eighty pounds of venison."

The guard nods at Ellie without looking at her. "And that one?"

David's hand tightens on the rope. It seems reflexive. Protective, almost. "Just a straggler. None of your concern."

"Don't know that we can afford another mouth to feed. Even for a little while."

"How about you let me worry about that? James, Stanley, get the buck to the kitchens." 

James and the other guard depart, dragging the carcass, but the big guy steps close and lowers his voice. "David, people are starting to talk."

"Don't see how it's any of their concern either."

He looks at Ellie. There's something fearful and almost pitying in his expression, and _that_ scares her. "Scavenging is one thing. We do what we have to do to get by. But, you can't expect people to just be okay with this."

"Okay with _what_? You want to finish that sentence, Larry?" The man swallows and backs down. David puts a possessive hand on Ellie's shoulder. "She's the one that bagged the buck. I think we can help each other, if we can reach an understanding. And anybody who's got a problem with that can take it up with me directly."

"And if she's the girl from the lab?"

"One problem at a time."

"You know what people will say . . ."

"Larry. Drop it."

Larry stares at the ground and nods shortly. His expression suggests that he's just bit into broken glass. Ellie notes that that's the second reference to "doing what we have to do." Something is very wrong here.

David settles a hand on her back and steers her past the cars and down an alleyway. "Come on, Miss Go-Fuck-Yourself. Let's get you cleaned up and warmed up."

The town looks like it might've been called quaint, at least before these creeps turned it into a fortress. Ellie catches a brief impression of a main street with faded storefronts before David nudges her down the alley and up a set of rusted steel stairs. As far as she can tell, the closest building used to be some kind of corner grocery - the kind with apartments above it for the shopkeeper. There's a heavy metal door at the top of the stairs, but it opens to David's key.

Ellie considers making a run for it, but she has a sneaking suspicion that Larry down by the road would just shoot her and consider it mercy. When David nudges her past the threshold, she puts up only a token resistance. The room beyond is a studio apartment. There's a bed tucked in one corner, close to a wood-burning stove. Crates line another wall, holding spare clothes and a couple of books. There's a battered metal table and a few folding chairs. David talks like he runs this place, but this is clearly no palace. The floor is peeling linoleum and the dry wall is chipped and cracked. It's almost as cold inside as it was outside.

David drops the rope and crosses the room to an old wardrobe locked with a chain and padlock. The lock opens to his key, revealing an improvised gun cabinet. He locks the weapons in there - his rifle, Ellie's bow and knife - and returns the key to the pocket of his coat. "I know, it's freezing. Give me a minute to get a fire going." There's wood and tinder stacked by the stove. He gets a fire started and waves Ellie over. "Feels like we got off on the wrong foot, young lady. Let's get you out of that."

He turns her and carefully unknots the rope at her wrists. Ellie keeps her face stony, refusing to react even as blood burns its way back into her fingertips. She turns and holds her hands over the stove, pointedly ignoring David. He sheds his coat, drapes it over a chair, then touches her shoulder. "You're soaked to the bone."

He's exaggerating, but she _is_ cold and wet. She fell in the snow a few times, dampening her canvas jacket. And during the struggle and the forced march that followed, she worked up a sweat, leaving her cotton tee shirt and hoodie just clammy shells. "Let me find you something dry at least." He fumbles through the stacked clothes and comes up with a red sweater. "This looks like it's about your size." He tosses it at her and she lets it bounce of her chest and fall to the floor.

David sighs, crosses to her, and puts his hands on her shoulders. "I get it, you know. You're scared. You're confused. There's a lot you don't understand yet, and I'll explain it all in time. For now, I just want you to know that I am _trying_ to look out for you. I might be the only one that can." He holds her gaze steadily. Ellie stares back at him, keeping her expression closed. Behind it, she's working at the brutal math of survival and coming to the same conclusion each time she runs the numbers. He nods. "You need to put on some dry clothes before you catch your death. I'll face the wall while you change. I ain't gonna look."

He releases her, crosses the room, and stares into a corner. Ellie stares down at the sweater and takes a few short breaths. It looks hand-knitted. It's no coincidence that he has this here, in her size. He wants her to know what he is. She has to play along - bide her time until he gives her the opening she needs. David . . . knows something about her, but that might make him underestimate her. She can use that. She can use _him_.

She strips off her jacket, hoodie, and shirt and tugs the sweater over her head as quickly as she can. It's worn but soft against her skin. There are a few holes at the sleeves. She slides her thumbs through them.

"It safe to turn around?" 

He's shooting for warm humor. She swallows hard and tightens her jaw. "Fine."

He turns. The sweater is a bit stretched out around the collar. His eyes catch on her exposed clavicle but flick away so quickly she could almost have imagined it. He tosses her a pair of wool socks. "Best lose the shoes too. Canvas sneakers like that in the snow? You've been courting frostbite."

She squats and tries to unknot her shoelaces, but her fingers are still stiff and stinging from the combination of the cold and poor circulation. She can't loosen the laces, no matter how much she fumbles with them. He kneels in front of her and lays his hand over hers. "Shit, kid, why didn't you say something?"

She doesn't dignify that with a response, but when he settles a hand on her shoulder, she lets him push her to sit. He strips her shoes and socks carefully, rubs her feet to warm them, and rolls the clean socks up her ankles. "Let me see." He draws her hands forward and rubs his thumbs gently over the rising bruises on her wrists. "Pins and needles, I know. It'll feel better in a couple minutes." He rubs her hands between his and she conceals a wince. She focuses on his hands. They're strong. Smaller than Joel's, but callused in a lot of the same places. She takes a slow, careful breath.

"That any better?"

She looks away and nods shortly.

He doesn't do anything about her jeans, though they're soaked through, too. To say anything would be to give up the game too quickly. He stands, sits on the bed, and pats the mattress beside him. "Why don't you come sit? I think it's past time you and I have a talk."

She sits on the rumpled blankets. "So, talk."

He stares into the flickering wood fire for a moment. "My people, we've been trying to get by out here for . . . close to two years now. We thought we were ready for the winters, but this one's been . . . difficult. We've been doing what we've got to do to get by, same as everybody, but that makes people hard." He pulls a clean handkerchief from his pocket and wipes gently at her face again. "We've got a pharmacy two blocks down. I'll get you some antiseptic after we talk."

She pushes his hand away. He lets her do it.

"Anyway . . . couple weeks back, I sent a group out looking for supplies. For food. Most of 'em didn't come back. You know where they went?"

There's no point in playing coy. He knows who she is. All she can hope for is to convince him she's not a threat. If she's not a threat, he'll keep her around. "UEC," she says quietly.

"The university. Yeah. And the survivors told me all about the man they had the . . . misfortune to run into. Said he was huge. Violent. Could kill a man with his bare hands. He killed over a dozen of my people, like it was nothing. And, that little girl he was with . . . she was pretty good at killing, too."

Ellie stares down at her hands and lets her face tremble a little. She's only half acting. She remembers that university lobby - the crack of her gun against her hand and the thud of a steel pipe across her face. The iron smell of blood and Joel's muffled, pained grunts.

He lays his hand gently on her wrist. "It's not your fault. You're just a kid. You were just doing what you had to do." He pauses and squeezes her arm. "What happened? To him?"

She swallows. She's in it, now. She has to play this perfectly, or Joel's a goner and so is she. She focuses on her last conversation with him hours ago - on his voice dry and cracking as he said _You might have to go on without me._ Her eyes start to sting. "He died," she whispers. David pats her hand and waits for her to go on. "He fell on this . . . piece of metal. It went right through him. I got him out, but it was too late." She draws a shuddering breath. "It took . . . three days. For him to bleed out. I kept hoping he was turning it around, but . . . there was nothing I could do."

"That must have been terrible," David says softly, "It's never easy to watch a man die. Especially if it's someone you care about." He rubs his thumb over her wrist. "Even if he was a . . . complicated person."

She yanks her hands away.

He doesn't take offense. He stands and leans against the wall. "Now, my people have been speculating for weeks about the crazy man at the college. Where he came from. What he wanted. And we've had almost as many questions about that little girl that was with him. But, after meetin' you, I think I'm starting to understand."

She grits her teeth. This isn't going to be pleasant.

"Most of my people thought you were his daughter. But, you're not, are you?"

She has to see this through. She takes a breath and slowly shakes her head.

"You were his pet," he says just as softly. Just as gently. "It wasn't your fault."

She lets her voice shake a little. "It wasn't like that."

"Why? Because he loved you? I'm sure he did."

"It _wasn't_. Like. That."

"Because _you_ loved _him_?"

She shakes her head. In a way, that's the hardest denial of all. It's true, but it's _not_. "I needed him. He protected me."

"Not much of a protector. Dragging you into danger like that."

"We didn't have a choice." She hesitates, then looks him square in the face. "I know what you're thinking, and it wasn't like that. I was using Joel, just as much as he was me."

"Joel. That was his name?"

She looks down and nods.

"How'd you end up running with him? You're a smart girl. Resourceful. There's lots of easier ways to make your way in the world."

She shrugs.

"You didn't have anybody else? Your parents?"

"Dead. Back before I left Boston."

"Boston? That's quite the ways from here."

"Not many people could've gotten me this far. Joel's one of them. Was one of them."

"And where were you trying to go?"

This is where she needs to alter details. "South," she says, "Houston." She vaguely remembers from school that there's still an active QZ in Houston. "I have an aunt down there, or that's what my mom said. Joel said he could get me there, but I had to pay him." Now she's creeping too close to the uncomfortable truth again. She remembers the first time Joel's hands closed over hers, gentle but unyielding. She shrugs stiffly. "I only had one way to pay him."

She resists the urge to look up at him. A decent man would react more or less like Tommy did - with horror. She already knows David's not a decent man.

He's silent for long moments. "You knew what you were doing," he says at last.

She doesn't look up - doesn't acknowledge him. But, she nods.

He steps close and runs a hand over her hair. "It's okay. I get it." He squeezes her shoulder. Pauses a moment. "We're not too far from Houston, now. In the spring, there's trade caravans that go up and down this part of the country. We make it through the winter, we can get you a spot with one of those groups. _If_ we make it through."

She presses her lips together but lets her hands shake a little. She looks up, finally. "What do you want?"

He sits down and takes her hand in his. "I want to be able to trust you." He strokes her skin. "My people are scared. They've been worried about that boogieman from UEC for weeks, wondering when he's gonna show up. Tomorrow, I want you to take me to where he's buried."

That's a test. It's Colorado in winter - he knows that. "I couldn't," she says, letting her voice crack a little, "The . . . the ground was too hard. I had to burn him."

"Then, you take us to the pyre. I know it's hard, but my people are never gonna trust you unless they know he's gone."

She swallows and nods. Tomorrow. She has a deadline. "What else?"

He has all the power. She hasn't put up any kind of a fight. He's ready, finally, to show himself to her. He tentatively drapes an arm around her shoulders. "I need assurances, too. That you are what you say you are."

She closes her eyes. "I'm not some kind of a slut."

"I didn't say you were."

"I haven't . . . been with anybody else. Just him."

"I don't want to hurt you. I can keep you safe here, but only if you work with me."

_As long as we're runnin' together, there's no one else for either of us._

Well, Joel can be mad at her _after_ she saves his life. She looks David square in the eye. "Okay."

He smiles softly. The wrinkles at the corners of his eyes even crease. He pats her hand and stands. He walks over to the crates again, fumbles for a moment, and pulls out a gray scarf. She doesn't bother to hide the trepidation in her eyes as he returns to the bed. "What are you doing?"

He takes her hands and wraps the scarf around her wrists. "I'm sorry. I _want_ to trust you, but I'm a cautious man. And you've got quite the body count to your name, little girl."

She looks away and doesn't resist as he ties her hands together. In a way, she's grateful. At least he's not trying to pretend that this is anything other than what it is.

"How's that? Not too tight?"

"It's fine," she says shortly.

"Your fingers start going numb, you tell me, okay?"

She nods without looking at him.

He takes her chin gently between his thumb and forefinger and turns her to face him. "What's your name, sweetheart?"

She flinches away. He settles both hands around her head and turns her back. "You told me _his_ name. Can't you tell me yours?"

She curls her stiff fingers into fists. There's no point in being proud. Pride won't keep her alive. "Ellie," she whispers.

"Ellie." He says the name softly, trying it out. "Short for Eleanor?"

She shakes her head. "Just Ellie."

"Ellie," he echoes, "It suits you."

He cups her jaw and draws her face towards his. She twitches away. Even Joel doesn't do that. She hasn't kissed anyone since Riley. Rather than backing down, he slides his other hand behind her neck and pulls her back. She twists out of his grip. "What do you think this is? Some kind of romance novel?"

He freezes for a moment, his hand tightening on her neck until it borders on pain. "Alright, girl. Have it your way." 

He grabs her by the shoulders and throws her down on the bed, so hard her head clangs against the metal bed frame. She grits her teeth and glares at him. "What happened to not wanting to hurt me?"

"I don't. I won't, if you can behave yourself. Can you do that?"

She takes a few quick breaths. He's showing himself to her. He _wants_ her scared. She's not going to give in to that, but she needs to tread cautiously. (She remembers other hands closing around her wrists, twisting until her fingers stung and she had to drop the knife. She pushes the thought away.) "Yeah. I'll _behave_."

He holds her gaze for a few moments, then kicks his boots off and climbs on top of her. He smells like wood smoke, overlaid with a sharp, iron tang. "Put your hands over your head, then. Grip the bed frame."

She obeys, slowly. The metal is cold against her hands. She turns her head and hides her face in the red wool of her sleeve.

David stays silent and motionless for what feels like a long time. The only sounds are the crackle of the wood stove and his soft breaths. Then, he sits up, his knees bracketing Ellie's thighs, and slides his thumbs under the sweater. He pushes the soft fabric up to her neck, exposing her. One hard, callused hand settles on her breast and squeezes, a touch that's disturbing both for how foreign and how familiar it is. She shivers. "Easy, girl." His voice is softer. Gentler. He likes seeing her vulnerable. She files that away for future use.

He leans down and kisses over her collarbone, then her neck. His beard rasps against her. His hand cups the side of her face and turns it, and this time she knows she can't fight back. She opens her eyes and stares up a few inches into his face, but instead of leaning in, he just holds her gaze. "You really did care about him, didn't you?"

Her eyes are stinging. She doesn't fight it, because if that doesn't sell this, nothing will. She blinks a few times and looks away. "Just don't try to kiss me again, okay?"

"Okay."

She's careful to hide her flash of triumph. One successful negotiation, complete.

He settles both hands over her breasts and massages slowly. "It's alright, pet. I'm gonna be good to you. In time, you'll forget all about him." He brushes his thumb over her nipple and she squeezes her eyes shut. It's normal - that flash of arousal. It's not something she can control. She, of all people, should know that. Like when . . .

She pushes away the memory of lips closing around her nipple, of teeth scraping against it. Doesn't matter. She was a stupid kid back then, but she knows what she's doing now.

One of David's hands slides down over her ribs. His fingers settle into the deep grooves between them. "Winter's been hard on you, hasn't it?"

Something about that feels wrong - feels like a new kind of wrong. It's enough to force memories of Joel temporarily out of her mind. She looks up cautiously into David's thin face. "You, too."

He smiles ruefully. "Well, you're not wrong." He leans back and unbuttons his shirt, then strips it off along with the tee shirt beneath. She keeps her eyes on him. He looks like he was once bulky and powerful. There's still a wiry sort of strength to his frame, but his ribs jut out more sharply than hers. Scars of all sizes dot his chest and wasted stomach. His hips are hard lines beneath a narrow waist, and only a thick leather belt keeps his jeans up. He leans over her again and presses down on her wrists. He wants her to feel how strong he is. ( _"You've gotta see for yourself . . ."_ )

"You okay, girl?"

He _notices_ when these little flashes of memory hit her. She's gotta be more careful. "I'm fine."

He's keeping his face soft. "Let's get you out of those wet clothes."

She grips the bedpost and doesn't resist as he unbuttons her jeans and slides the zipper down. When he moves to tug her pants off, she lifts her hips obligingly, though the wet denim clings and scrapes at her skin. He pulls her panties down, too, but leaves the socks. She settles into the damp sheets and fights off another shiver. He kicks his jeans off, too, but leaves the boxers, and then pulls the sheets and a faded quilt over both of them. 

It's been a while since the sheets were changed. They smell like David. Ellie tries not to wonder who else might have shared this apartment, this bed, this sweater in her size. There's no point in wondering what happened to them. She needs to keep her wits about her.

"Open your legs for me, now, pet."

She'd like to believe that her automatic compliance is some clever ploy to lull him into a false sense of security. Really, though, it's just reflex. No matter. She knows how to get through this.

David slides a hand between her legs and rubs his finger firmly against her slit. "Not very wet. Maybe you don't know what you're doing after all."

Ellie's face hardens. "Or, maybe you're just shit in bed," she snaps.

His reaction is immediate. The back of his hand cracks against her cheek, snapping her head to the side. She swallows a yelp that's as much surprise as pain. Her hands come down to guard her face, but he takes her wrists and pushes them firmly above her head. "Guess he never taught you manners." She glares up at him, but his face isn't even angry - just firm. "I'm giving you a chance, here, girl. Don't waste it."

She swallows hard. Her face is throbbing, but she needs that pain - needs the reminder that this isn't Joel. She can't just say whatever she feels like. She needs to be smart about this if she's going to manipulate him.

She abruptly remembers a barn cat that she saw catch a mouse way back in Iowa. Over and over again, the cat let the mouse scamper away, only to swat it back with a paw. The mouse probably thought it was so smart. Probably thought it had the cat right where it wanted it.

"Hold onto the bed frame."

She obeys, hands trembling. He runs his thumb gently down her cheek. "You do know how to push my buttons, don't you, girl?"

He likes vulnerability. He likes pain, too. She lets her lip tremble a little and takes a slow, shuddering breath. It's enough to settle him. His voice goes soft again. "Okay, Ellie. I can be patient. Lord knows you've had a rough go of it."

He leans down and closes his lips over her nipple. One hand moves between her legs, rubbing. Ellie clenches her jaw tight. She struggles to think, through the sharp contrast of pain and arousal. She needs to keep her head on straight.

"Be a good girl, now. Relax for me." He slides two fingers into her. She's not quite ready, but his fingers feel just like Joel's. She can feel her body start to respond. "That's it, pet. You're starting to get slick for me." She closes her eyes and bites her lip. Apparently, praise can still get her going, even if it's from him. "You want to be a good girl. Don't you?"

She nods, eyes still closed.

"Okay. You're okay." He nudges her legs further apart. With the covers concealing him, she doesn't realize he's pushed his boxers down until she feels his cock bump at her entrance. She conceals a flash of panic. It's too soon - it's way too soon. "It's alright, sweetheart. I'm gonna take care of you."

He pushes in, hard, and she can't quite conceal a gasp. He's smaller than Joel, but she's not ready, and instead of a smooth slide, it's a scraping, pinching burn. The pain mixes with the familiar sense of wrongness, and each sensation amplifies the other until she wants to crawl out of her own skin. She holds herself still. He groans, long and low in her ear. "Shit, you're tight." He draws back and pushes in again and she can't help but whimper. He strokes her hair, consolingly. "It's alright, pet. Be a good girl for me. It'll get better soon."

( _". . . opening up so nice on my cock. Pussy's just spreading right open. Gonna make you feel so good, baby doll . . ."_ )

A tear is trickling down her cheek. She fights down a flash of shame as David brushes it away with his thumb. She can get through this. She just needs to sell it. "Easy. It's okay."

He slides a hand down and finds her clit, finally. Ellie struggles to hold still as he strokes and pinches gently. "Settle in, pet. I've got you."

She can feel herself starting to respond - starting to get slick. He rocks in and out a few times, setting up a slow rhythm. It's starting to feel normal. Familiar.

"That's better. Knew you could do it, kid. You've just gotta have a little faith."

She tunes him out. Let him see what he wants to see, believe what he wants to believe. When she feels the urge to move with him, she doesn't fight it. It's starting to feel good, but she knows that's just her body's natural, built-in responses. Nerves and hormones. It doesn't mean anything.

"That feel better?"

She nods without looking at him.

His voice changes. "Okay. Now that I've got you warmed up, let's see how much you can take."

Her eyes fly open. She lets go of the bedpost, but before she can do anything, he grabs her by the hips and flips her onto her stomach. "Hey!" Before she can say anything more - before she can even think - he drives into her from behind. "Fuck!" The force of it punches the breath from her lungs. " _Fuck_."

"Brace yourself." His voice cuts through the ringing in her ears. "Elbows and knees."

She scrambles to obey, but he's driving into her, hard enough to hurt. She's not ready - she's got no way to _be_ ready. Her breath catches, and for a moment, she thinks he's choking her, but, no, his hands are tight on her hips, raising bruises. It's just panic that's making her breath freeze in her lungs like that. He's trying to scare her - to _hurt_ her - and the blow lands harder than he could have guessed.

( _"What do you think Ellie? Am I a good guy? Am I somebody you can cure?"_ )

He's just grunting now. His breath pants hot against the back of her neck. She wishes he would say something - even something horrible - just to remind her of where she is and who she's with. She braces herself and focuses on her breaths. In and out.

He groans, loud and long, and it takes her a moment to realize he's finished. He pulls out and lets her sink into the mattress, panting. His hand strokes down her spine, suddenly gentle again. "You did good, kid. Sure showed me." He sits up, swings his legs over the edge of the bed, and nudges her to turn. "Let's get you loose." 

She rolls onto her side and holds still as he unknots the scarf at her wrists. After, he keeps her hands trapped in his and rubs at her wrists for long moments. "Your hands okay? Not sore, not numb?"

"It's fine," she whispers. She kind of hates how small and hoarse her voice sounds.

He hesitates, then strokes her hair. "You must be starving. I'll swing by the kitchens. They should have at least some of that venison cooked up by now. You've earned it."

Ellie closes her eyes. It feels like a lifetime since she shot the deer. As David stands and dresses, she pulls the covers over herself, like a child hiding from the monster under the bed.

Once he's fully clothed, he pauses one more time with his hand on her shoulder. "You did good, Ellie. You've got a chance to do well here." He pulls his hand away. She can feel him staring down at her. "I hope you make the right choice." He turns toward the door, and a moment later it swing shut behind him.

Ellie pulls the sheets up to her face and breathes into them, slowly. Adrenaline and incongruous arousal are draining out of her, leaving her weak and shaking. So this is what it's like, she reflects dimly. To be fucked by someone who doesn't give a shit about her.

She forces away the flood of emotions that lurk behind that stray thought. She has a mission, and step one is to get the hell out of this room - out of this _town_ \- before David figures out that she's lied to him. She sits up, then stands and shoves her legs back into her panties. Her jeans are warm from the stove but still a little damp. She pulls them on anyway.

Her fingers toy with the hem of the sweater. She wonders, one more time, whose clothes she's wearing. It doesn't matter. The sweater is wool - warm and soft. She pulls her hoodie and jacket on over it and quickly laces up her canvas sneakers.

Once she's back in her flimsy armor, she lifts her head and scans the room, searching for anything she can use. Her eyes fall on the chair by the table, and for a moment, she can't believe her luck. David's left his jacket behind. The sun is out and it's warmed up a bit. He probably doesn't have far to go.

He'll probably be back soon.

She jumps up, crosses to the table, and fishes the keys out of his pocket. It takes her a few nerve-wracking minutes to find the key that opens the padlock on the bureau, but when she does, she whistles at the array of weapons. She grabs her bow and her mom's knife. The 9mm Joel gave her is nowhere to be found, but she takes an extra revolver and David's hunting rifle. It's the best arsenal she can hope to carry, but she hopes she doesn't need to use it.

They have a pharmacy, David said. Two blocks down. Antiseptic. Maybe antibiotics, if she's lucky. She turns to the door and tries the handle.

It doesn't budge.

She growls in frustration and throws her shoulder against it, but it doesn't help. Of course. She knows what David is. He wouldn't just leave her to her own devices.

There's two large windows just past the table, though. She crosses the room and stares down. The windows look out on a blank alley wall. There's no fire escape, but it's only the second floor. Maybe a fifteen foot drop. Enough to snap an ankle if she's careless, so she just won't be careless. She leans into the glass and looks down as far as she can in either direction. There's no movement. The alley is empty.

She takes the butt of the rifle and slams it against the glass once, twice, three times before it shatters into pieces. It takes her another minute to knock out all the loose bits so that she can grip the window frame without slicing her fingers to pieces. She straps the rifle over her shoulder and swings out the window before she can talk herself out of it. She dangles from the window frame for a moment, then grits her teeth and lets herself drop.

The ground springs up to meet her faster than she expects. She tries to land in a deep crouch, but barks her knee against the pavement all the same, sending spikes of pain radiating up her leg. She swallows a cry and tries to push to her feet, only to be stopped by another flash of pain, this time in her foot. She lifts her shoe and finds a two-inch piece of glass sticking out of the sole. She grabs it and wrenches it out. Blood wells up to fill the hole in the rubber. No matter. She hasn't broken anything. She's mobile.

She darts down the alleyway, pauses for a moment, then sprints across the street. There's not a soul to be seen. Maybe it's dinner time - these people don't seem like they can afford to miss meals. She keeps to the shadows, all the same. It's late afternoon. Night's not far off.

She reaches the end of the second alley and stares across the street at a faded green awning reading "Rx Emporium." A pharmacy. Can it really be that simple? This street, too, seems deserted. She dashes across, breaks a window, and vaults into the brick building. Once her eyes adjust to the dim light, she realizes that it is, indeed, stocked as a pharmacy, though she doubts they've seen normal customers in a decade or two. Rolls of cloth bandages line the metal shelves around her, along with jars of ointments and medicinal herbs. She stays in a crouch and moves down the aisle to duck into the next. And the next. 

Three aisles down, she finds the good stuff: rows of white plastic bottles and amber glass vials. Jars of glass syringes. She scans bottle after bottle, looking for anything ending in _-cillin_ or _-mycin._ Just as she's about to despair, her eyes land on a couple of vials labeled _penicillin_. Even she's heard of that one.

She grabs two vials and a syringe and turns toward her exit, but freezes at the sound of footsteps on the bare floors. Cautiously, she pads over to the end of the aisle and peeks out.

A thin woman is moving between the shelves, a clipboard in her hands. Ellie swallows. Her hand tightens on the revolver, then relaxes and reaches for her knife instead. The woman isn't armed, but she's clearly the one in charge of these supplies. Even if Ellie can somehow slip past her, she'll notice the broken window, maybe even the missing antibiotics. She'll raise the alarm, and then there's no getting out.

A stray gust of wind whistles through the broken window. The woman turns. Her brow furrows. She looks at least forty. There's gray threaded through her hair.

Ellie grabs a glass jar containing some kind of shaved root and throws it across the room to shatter against the wall. The woman's eyes flash with alarm. She turns to investigate.

Not leaving room for hesitation or conscience, Ellie slips in behind her, shoots one arm around her neck, and drives her knife into the woman's throat at an upwards angle. It doesn't feel any different than quietly taking down a runner. The blood spills out, hot and sticky over Ellie's hand, but the woman can't make more than a horrified gurgling sound. Ellie's stabbed right through her vocal cords. "Sorry," she whispers vaguely. The dying woman doesn't respond. Her body jerks once, then goes slack and sinks to the ground.

Ellie has a _mission_. She doesn't have time for regrets. She yanks her knife free, wipes it once on her jeans, and turns toward the door.

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Later, she can't believe that her luck holds. Shadows and a few stray rock formations somehow conceal her from the handful of sentries outside the town walls. Though the coming night is shrouding everything, she's able to retrace her steps to where she killed the buck, following the trail of a triangle-shaped cliff-face here, a rusted old shed there. Once she's back among the ruined warehouses, she knows the way, and it's just a matter of sprinting back through the woods to where she left Callus. He's still tethered to the tree, tail swishing aimlessly, but he looks sharp when she hops on and steers him back up the hill, towards where Joel is waiting.

It's dark enough that she has to click her flashlight on when she steps back into the house. She clutches the penicillin tight, though her hands are shaking. The gnawing hole in her gut must be from hunger - that half can of peaches feels like a lifetime ago.

The basement is pitch dark. It takes a few minutes of fumbling to find and light the oil lamp. Dreading what she might find, she turns, at last, towards the mattress. For a moment, she thinks Joel is dead, then he takes a rattling breath. His face is slack and shining with sweat. The plaid blanket is twisted around his limbs, as if he's tried to kick it off and pull it back over and over again. There's no telling how long he's been out.

"Joel?" No response. She drops to her knees beside him and shakes his shoulder. "Joel. C'mon." He grunts softly, but that's all. She checks his pulse. It's strong enough, though she can feel the fever burning through his skin. Her head drops and she presses her lips together. There's no waking him when he's this deeply out. At least it seems like the night terrors have stopped. 

"Sorry I was gone so long," she says as if he can understand her, "I hope you didn't worry. Couldn't find any food, but . . . it wasn't exactly a wasted trip." She tries to keep her hands steady as she draws up a dose of the penicillin. She squints to read the label in the dim light. It says it's supposed to be given intra-muscularly, and she hopes that word means what it sounds like. "Anything ending in _cillin_ , right? This'll do the trick." She rolls up his sleeve, plunges the needle into his bicep, and injects the antibiotics. He doesn't react to the initial prick of the needle, but he groans and flinches when she depresses the plunger. She winces and looks away. "You're gonna be okay. You have to be."

She stares down at her hands. There's still blood under her fingernails, and she doesn't know how much is from the deer and how much from the woman. The sleeve of the red sweater is poking out just a little from beneath her jacket. She grips the wool between thumb and forefinger and tugs on it gently. Tomorrow, probably, the horror of the day will hit her. For now, she just feels hollow. Everything that happened after she shot the deer seems unreal, like a particularly unnerving dream. Now that the adrenaline is fading, exhaustion hits all at once, making her whole body shake. Well, she's done as much as she can for one day. Nothing left to do but get some rest and wait for the antibiotics to work. Joel will know what to do, when he gets better. He _will_ get better.

She crawls onto the mattress and pulls the covers over them both. Joel radiates heat, like a two hundred pound hot water bottle. It's almost enough to make her trembling stop. She tucks herself against his side and leans her cheek against his shoulder, wishing she could feel his arms around her. That always made things better, no matter how difficult the day had been.

"I did something stupid," she tells Joel quietly, "You're gonna be pretty pissed when you find out." She can still smell wood smoke and iron. She buries her face in Joel's shirt, trying to banish it with leather and gun oil. It doesn't help much. Joel's natural scent is mostly buried under a vague foulness that's been growing since he first got hurt. "You're gonna want to yell and scream. Just don't be a dick about it, okay? I did what I had to do."

That's all it was: just something she had to do. There's no point in dwelling on it, now that it's over. She takes his hand in hers and squeezes, but lets go all at once when she feels his calluses. That's stupid. He's not the same. Joel cares about her, so it's not the same.

"Just get better, okay?" she whispers, "Don't make this all for nothing."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE COLD SHOWER:
> 
> I'll keep this shorter than I could, because hopefully the ways in which David is abusive are clear and self-evident.
> 
> -David gets her compliance by using a combination of violence, the threat of violence, physical control, and positioning himself as her protector. Ellie has seen this movie before.
> 
> -To some extent, the abuse she suffered from Joel primed Ellie to accept David's predatory actions because she feels like she can "handle it." There are, however, significant differences between them, with the biggest being the degree of sadism David displays. In canon, it's arguable whether David is presented as a pedophile or not - personally, I think the subtext is clear, but others, including his voice actor disagree. I don't think anyone who's played through his boss fight, though, would doubt that he is a deeply sadistic character who derives pleasure from hurting and toying with Ellie. At this point in the story, she thinks she's seen what he's capable of, but he's still only shown her a little of his true character.
> 
> -Child sex abusers, as I've mentioned before, can be sorted into rough "typologies" based on who they abuse and why and under what circumstances. Joel in this fic, for instance, is a "regressed offender" who abuses due to psychological stress and feelings of inadequacy. David, on the other hand, is a "sadistic offender," meaning that he targets children because they're vulnerable and easy to hurt. This is the rarest type of abuser, fortunately, and by far the most dangerous.
> 
> -David shows some of the hallmarks of psychopathy - charisma, intelligence, manipulative behavior, lack of empathy, ect. These characteristics are highly correlated with sadistic tendencies and with ending up in a position of leadership.
> 
> Feedback is greatly appreciated.


	12. 'Til the Cage Is Full

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Joel continues to wrestle with his demons, Ellie struggles to endure and survive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEED THE WARNINGS AND DO NOT READ THIS IF DOING SO WOULD BE UNHEALTHY FOR YOU.
> 
> Specific warnings for this chapter: violence, mentions of prostitution, depictions of addiction, violence towards a child, death of an animal, and PTSD. Ye gods, so much PTSD.

Joel swims back towards consciousness, buoyed by a sense of urgency he can't quite explain. He opens his eyes and the world is a gray blur that refuses to resolve.

"Shit. They tracked me."

The voice is familiar and tight with tension. He blinks a few times and twists his head. The room around him still only half makes sense, but he can make out Ellie crouched on top of a washing machine and peering out a window.

"I should've known it was too fucking easy."

She turns and looks at him. He tries to reach out, but his arms are so damn heavy. She hops down and crouches beside him. "Hey. It's okay. I've got it under control." She hesitates and glances at the window. "I can deal with this. I'm gonna draw them away. I'll come back for you."

He tries to speak, but can't get out more than a garbled groan. Tries to sit up, but pain rips through his abdomen and black spots nibble away at the edges of his vision. He can feel Ellie's hand in his. It's too thin. Fragile, like the wing of a bird. He tries to squeeze, but he can feel the world fading out.

A sudden sting in his arm rouses him. He looks down to see a needle protruding from the crook of his elbow. "You're gonna be okay."

There's no time to question it further. The world goes black.

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A week after Amie first showed up on his doorstep, Joel found her in the bathroom, scrubbing out a pair of underwear in the tub. His brow furrowed. "You bleedin' again? You told me it'd stopped."

She looked up at him. Under the yellowing bruises, her face was more embarrassed than panicked. "It did. Just my period."

"What happened to the Depo injections?"

"They closed the clinic. There's no money in keeping hookers clean."

"Well, what've you been using?"

"Joey just told the customers he'd break their kneecaps if they didn't pull out."

"That's not a solution. And you know it."

"Well, what did you want me to do? Those shots cost twelve cards on the black market!"

"An abortion would cost you fifty."

Her shoulders slumped. She didn't respond.

He looked away. "The market over on North Street still has Depo. I'll take you tomorrow."

She stared at the ceramic tub, her face flaming with humiliation. "Thanks. Once . . . once _this_ is over, it'll probably be time for my stitches to come out. I can go find some work. Start paying you back."

He gritted his teeth. _Paying him back_. Well, there was no point in having _that_ argument right now - not when taking charity could only make her feel worse. "Gotta do something about Marinelli, first. It ain't safe out there." 

She nodded wordlessly.

"I'm goin' out. Should be back before dark. There's bread and Spam in the cupboards. Keep away from the windows and don't answer the door if anybody knocks."

He grabbed his revolver and a stack of ration cards on his way out the door. After locking up, he paused for a moment, half-wishing he could bolt it from the outside, too. Maybe he ought to at least put a bit of tape on the door, so he'd know if she snuck out. He shook the thought away. He couldn't just start locking her up like a fucking animal. She got through withdrawal okay, and she swore she was doing fine.

He shook his head, tucked his gun into the depths of his coat, and headed out the door.

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There's no time for thought as she flees the house. Ellie clings to Callus's neck and urges him on as bullets whiz past just above their heads. There's been no sign of David himself, but he's sent well over a dozen goons. She sticks to the main road, where the clatter of hooves over asphalt will draw the most attention. One large but stupid man jumps off a curb and tries to grab the horse's bridle. She hits him in the temple with the butt of her revolver and winces at the soft thump as he goes under Callus's hooves.

The road runs south, towards a couple of old vacation homes perched around a lake. She knows from her previous explorations that there's an abandoned ski resort off to the east. She can lead them off that way, and maybe lose them in the woods that cover the slopes. She crashes down an embankment and gallops along the edge of the water. There are a couple more goons down here, but she takes them by surprise and is able to fly past before they quite know what's happening. The road ends here, but there's a mountain trail running out around the lake. It's steep and slick with snow, but just wide enough for one rider. She kicks Callus up the slope. "C'mon," she murmurs, "Just a little further . . ." There are shouts and gunshots ringing out behind her, but they don't seem to have cars or bikes or horses of their own. Callus can outrun them. They're gonna make it . . .

They've rounded the bluff and her pursuers are finally out of sight when it happens. Callus's hoof slips on a sliding patch of shale, his leg goes out from under him, and their momentum carries them over the edge of the bluff. Ellie is thrown from the saddle and sees just a momentary flash of blue sky before she thuds into the rocky ground, fifteen feet below. Pain explodes through her shoulder and gravel scrapes deep gouges in her face. She can hear Callus screaming and she kind of wants to scream too, but her lungs feel frozen. She curls an arm around her head and forces herself to take one breath. Then another.

David's men aren't far behind. She can't stay here. She pushes herself up slowly and shakes out her left arm. It hurts like hell, but it's moving okay. Nothing's broken, probably.

The horse screams again, and the sound is accompanied by the rattle of gravel. Ellie wipes a bit of blood from her brow, turns, and feels her chest freeze again. This time, it's not from the impact.

Callus is struggling to stand. Like Ellie, he's scraped and battered in a dozen places. The saddle has been knocked sideways and the reins are caught under his right front leg. And his left leg . . . the cannon bone is bent at an unnatural angle. He's trying to push himself up, but it keeps collapsing under him. There's a jagged wound just below his knee, with something white poking through.

Ellie closes her eyes. She may not be an expert on horses, but she knows there's no coming back from an injury like that. She pushes herself shakily to her feet. They'll be coming for her. She can't stay here.

She can't leave him like this.

She takes a careful step towards him, holding out her hands. "Easy, buddy," she whispers, "It's okay." His eyes are rolling with panic, but he settles a little, watching her. She reaches out and touches his cheek with trembling fingers. "I'm sorry, man. It's my fault. I shouldn't have pushed you that hard."

The revolver, knocked from her hands in the fall, sits near his hooves. She picks it up, checks the cylinder, and swallows past the spike in her throat. "You were amazing. It's gonna be okay." 

She lifts the gun to his head, presses it just below his forelock, and pulls the trigger. He jerks once and slumps to the ground. He doesn't scream again. 

Ellie backs away, panting for breath. She can hear shouts from the other side of the lake. With the gunshot, she's given away her exact location. The damn revolver is shaking in her hands and she wants nothing more than to chuck it in the lake, but they'll be coming for her soon. She's still got Joel counting on her, and Marlene and . . . fuck, _everyone_. She's got to get out of here.

Pushing down pain and nausea, she turns and runs along the water's edge, her sneakers slipping on rocks and ice. A bullet whizzes over her head. Her pursuers are so close that she can hear their footsteps. They're shouting at her, but she tunes it out and snaps off a quick shot over her shoulder. Up the hill, there's another weather-beaten building. Maybe she can find something in there. Maybe there's somewhere to hide, at least.

A ten foot embankment stands in her way. There's no time to look for alternate routes - no time at all. She jumps up and grabs for handholds among the rocks and scrubby tree roots, but before she's even halfway up the slope, a hand closes on her ankle. She yells a curse, swings the revolver into line, and fires. The man screams and crumples, but her other hand slips and she rolls and slides to the ground next to him. Before she can collect herself, the rest of them are on her and there's too many. She gets off one more shot before the stock of a rifle crashes into her temple and the world goes dark.

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It was four blocks to Tess's place, through the sort of gray drizzle that seemed to blanket Boston for six months out of the year. Just as well. The weather gave Joel an excuse to keep his hands in his pockets and his shoulders hunched, concealing the gun in his coat. There were a few soldiers about, but most of them were over knocking heads in Area 5, where Marlene's crew had been stirring up trouble. The few passersby either nodded to him with stiff congeniality or kept well out of his way. One young woman who he recognized from the markets actually crossed the street to avoid him, her arm wrapped around an eight-year-old boy.

Tess often had visitors, but today her apartment was silent. Joel knocked on the door twice, paused, then knocked four times so she'd know it was him. He had just enough time to wonder if she'd gone out before the door swung open. She was dressed for a lazy day in a tee shirt and sweats, her hair pulled back with a bandana. Her expression, though, was as sharp as ever. "Our next shipment isn't due in for four more days. So, either you _teleported_ to Bill's place and back, or you need something from me."

Joel shrugged one shoulder. "Can I come in?"

She stepped back and waved him inside with the exaggerated courtesy of a hotel doorman.

Joel glanced around the space automatically, though nothing had changed. Tess's apartment was almost identical to his in layout, except that where he had a kitchen table, she had a green plaid couch with half the springs poking through. As soon as the door was closed, she plopped down on the couch, kicked her feet up, and scooped up a paperback novel. "Well?" she said, looking at the dog-eared pages instead of him.

Joel leaned against the kitchen counter and folded his arms. She could probably tell, by now, that he was packing. She knew what this was about, more or less. "I need someone killed."

She flipped a page. "You got a client?"

He shook his head.

"Pro bono, then. You know how that thrills me."

"I can throw in a couple cards if you watch my back. Maybe a nice bottle of Scotch."

"Gee, Joel, you sure know how to woo a girl." She sat up and set the book aside. "Who's the target?"

"Joey Marinelli."

"Oh, come on, _Marinelli_? Do you _want_ to end up at the bottom of the harbor?"

"He ain't that high up."

"Maybe not, but he's got his fingers in a little of everything. Girls for the south side. Drugs for the north. Guns for the Kings _and_ M29. Bombs for Marlene."

"Gee, sure would be a shame if Marlene couldn't get her hands on any more bombs."

"You are gonna piss a lot of people off."

"Nobody's gonna shed a tear, though. They know what kind of asshole he is, and everything he moves, they can get elsewhere. We might even be able to pick up some of his gun runs."

She rolled her eyes. "This about a girl?"

He didn't answer, which was as good as an answer.

"Y'know, pretty soon there's not gonna be a pimp in the state of Massachusetts who will let his girls near you. So, when you're beating it out cold and lonely, don't say I didn't warn you."

He snorted. "How 'bout you let _me_ worry about my sex life? Help or don't, but I'm taking Joey out."

"You're gonna get your head blown off without backup."

He shrugged. "Maybe."

She drummed her fingers on the book's cover, considering. She'd told him more than once that getting involved in trade girl bullshit would be the death of him. She wasn't entirely unfeeling - she'd turned a few tricks herself, back before she got hard enough and dangerous enough that she didn't have to anymore - but, she didn't quite get why most girls couldn't just follow her example. "What the hell? Good partners are hard to train, and I've almost gotten you housebroken. Keep your cards, but it better be some good Scotch."

She stood and crossed to the bedroom to change her clothes. As usual, she left the door open. She found it hilarious how he always averted his eyes. "So, how we gonna play this?"

"I'll be the hook," he said, "I can approach his people, talkin' about bygones and ask if he can get me a girl."

She snorted. "Not gonna happen. _I'm_ the hook. You're the line."

"Tess . . ."

"That's the only way this works, Texas. If his people have two brain cells to rub together, they'll shoot you before he's even on the same block. _Especially_ if he's had a girl run off recently." She emerged from the bedroom in jeans and a button-down shirt. She took a look at his face and rolled her eyes. "She's at your place, isn't she?"

Joel didn't answer.

"Look, either stop taking in the strays or set up a flophouse for them and go legit with it!"

"It's just until I can deal with Marinelli. Then, she's gone."

"She better be. I don't want the rug rat fucking up our supply lines." She tucked a pistol into her waistband, then concealed it under a bulky raincoat. "Let's get this over with."

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Ellie wakes slowly. There's cold tile under her head. She's indoors, but her breath frosts in the air.

Pain rattles through her and she fights back a groan. The world is a little blurry on the right side. She touches her face and finds that the right eye is swollen almost shut. Well, nothing she can do about that.

She pushes herself up and is unsurprised to find herself in a cage. Chain link and a barred door separate her from the rest of what was once a storage room. There's old blood ground into the grout between the tiles. David's clearly got a flair for the dramatic. There's a butcher's counter outside the cage, stained red and boasting a variety of cleavers and boning knives. Some kind of carcass sits on the block, half broken down. A pig, probably.

She blinks a few times and climbs to her feet. At least she's alone. The barred door is padlocked, but there's a window behind her, high up on the wall. She jumps for it and fumbles for the latch. It's locked, of course.

There's . . . something. Something that she saw but didn't process, and it's niggling at her mind. Slowly, she turns back. Her breath catches and she has to fight down a flash of nausea. The carcass on the table could be almost anything, but on the floor beside it, there's a hand. A human hand, severed at the wrist. It's thin and wrinkled with age. There's a deep indent on the third finger, where a wedding band probably once sat. Ellie clenches her jaw and looks up. Yes, there's the head, at the other end of the table. It's facing away from her, but long hair fans out over the edge of the table. Dark brown, caked with blood, streaked with gray. Ellie remembers her fingers tangling in that hair as she raised her knife.

The woman. The one from the pharmacy.

Before Ellie can even begin to process this, the door swings open and she fights to force the emotion from her face. It's David, of course. He's carrying a steaming tray, but he sets it on a side counter for now. The smell makes Ellie's stomach rumble, then lurch.

"You're awake. How's your head?"

Ellie glares at him. "What is this, your fucking dungeon?"

He smiles, shakes his head, and steps around the table. He leans back against it and studies her. "That'd be easier for you, wouldn't it? If I was some kind of villain like in the movies?"

Ellie rotates her jaw. It's a little swollen, but not half as bad as her eye.

David's face is steady. "I underestimated you, Ellie. Or overestimated, maybe, depending on how you look at it." He glances behind him and sighs. "It's one thing to kill in a firefight. To do it to survive. But, Monica here never lifted a hand to you, did she?"

Ellie swallows and doesn't respond.

David nods. "Thought so. She wasn't the type, she just . . . kept track of the stock rooms. Watched people's children for them. Grew vegetable gardens in the spring."

"What's your fucking point?" Ellie snaps.

"We trusted you. Spared your life. Took you into our home. And you betrayed that trust. Terrible look for me, especially, given that I vouched for you."

"You just wanted to fuck me."

Joel would've flinched at that. David just watches her, steadily. "I wanted a lot more than that. I wanted your loyalty."

"Well, you've got a shitty way of asking for it."

"Touché." He picks up the tray, crouches by the door, and slides it under the bars. "You should eat something. You've gotta be hungry."

It's a stew of some kind. Chunks of roasted meat float in brown gravy. Ellie's stomach rumbles again, and she glares daggers at David. "What is that? A little Monica Surprise?"

He smiles and shakes his head. "No. You've got my word on that."

" _What_ , then? Or, should I say, _who_?"

He straightens. His face is still set in pleasant lines, but his eyes are cold. "It's the horse."

Ellie's breath hisses out. She can feel the blood drain from her face. Callus. _Fuck_ , he deserved better. She's shaking, but she manages to kick the tray back under the door. A bit of gravy sloshes over the side of the bowl, and with it a chunk of meat. "You are one sick fuck, you know that?"

David stoops and picks up the bowl, and the spoon beside it. He scoops up a bit of stew and takes a bite. "It's food. It'll keep you alive. And, as you might've gathered, we've had to make choices a lot tougher than this one to survive."

Her breath is coming short and sharp. "Fuck you." She turns to stare out the window, but grime and frost hides any glimpse of the sky.

David sets the bowl down. "You think you're better than us? That you're somehow above all this? Well . . . we both know that's not true, pet."

She turns to glare. He has a hand on the bars. 

"People will do . . . crazy things to get by. To keep their people alive. But, I don't think you're crazy. And I think I know why you'd be willing to kill over a bottle of penicillin." David pauses. "He's alive, isn't he? Hurt or sick, but alive. You lied to me."

"You're right. I'm not crazy. But, you're a raging lunatic."

His face tightens. His voice, finally, becomes urgent. "I've got over a dozen dead men. And now, a woman. Most of 'em by your hand. What the hell do you think my people are going to say to that? I'm trying to protect you, and you're doing everything in your power to make that impossible." He stops himself. "I'm not asking you to help me. I'm asking you to help yourself."

Ellie can't let him think she's afraid of him. She approaches the door and puts a hand on the bars. "Or, what?"

He looks down at her fingers, smiles, and glances over his shoulder. "Well . . . you can imagine." He backs away and turns. "Think about it, Ellie. I can still help you. If you let me."

Ellie doesn't respond. She can't show weakness. Or fear.

When he's gone, she sinks to the ground and wishes she could blame her shaking on the cold.

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Joel watched, concealed behind a crate, while two of Marinelli's thugs roughed Tess up. They had her hands zip tied behind her and had progressed from slapping to backhands across the face. One of them tried to cop a feel and got a knee to the nuts for his trouble. The resulting punch caught her in the gut, but she laughed through it. "Zero stars for customer service! I think I'd like to talk with your manager."

Joel's hand tightened on his revolver. Not yet. Move too soon, and this would all be for nothing.

He sank further back into the shadows as footsteps echoed through the warehouse, announcing the arrival of their prey. Joey Marinelli was a rough-looking guy in his thirties who'd never been as important as he wanted to be. He covered his inadequacies with slick leather jackets and gold chains that by now looked like relics - props for a period piece on gangsters before the outbreak. "Joey!" Tess called out before he could speak, "If this is how you treat a potential business partner, it's no wonder nobody will work with you."

"Don't bullshit me, Tess," he snapped, "You're not here about getting in on the dope runs. Miller sent you, didn't he?"

"Now, _why_ would you accuse a nice girl like me of keeping company like that?"

He got right up in her face, blind to everything around him. He grabbed her chin. "You tell that _psychopath_ that I had nothing to do with what happened to that girl! She's a lying little bitch. She probably did it to herself to get his sympathy."

"Gee, you sure know a lot about something you had _nothing to do with_." He backhanded her, but she just smiled through bloody teeth. Joel clenched his jaw and waited for the signal. "Joey. Joseph. Joe. You really do make it too easy."

And, there it was. Joel stepped out of cover and fired two shots, dropping both of the thugs before they knew what hit them. Marinelli yelled and tried to grab Tess as a shield, but she reared back and head butted him hard enough that his nose crunched flat into his face and he fell to the ground. Tess kicked him twice, then stepped back so Joel could finish him off with a bullet to the brain. 

In the aftermath, she panted for a moment. She slipped her hands out of the zip ties before Joel could help - a trick she'd never quite been able to teach him.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Peachy." She spat, then stooped to grab her 9mm along with Joey's 45 cal. "Nice piece!"

"The docks ain't far. Think we should ditch 'em in the water?"

She shook her head. "That sounds like work. Let 'em rot. Someone will find them when they start stinking up the place, but, like you said, nobody's gonna shed a tear."

Joel nodded and looked away. Tess, apparently unbothered by her swelling lip, collected two more handguns from the hired muscle. 

"Look, I . . . Thank you."

She shrugged. "Yeah, yeah. Tell the kid Auntie Tess said hi. Then tell her to get the fuck out."

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Ellie was sure she wouldn't be able to sleep. Even after hours of searching her bare cell fruitlessly, after dozens of futile attempts to break the window or force the door open, after the sun set and left her totally in darkness, she was sure fear and anxiety would keep her up all night. She must've been more tired than she realized, though, because she does sleep, curled up in a ball to ward off the cold, and once she's out, she's too exhausted even to dream.

She sleeps through the key in the padlock and the door swinging open. She wakes only when a hand closes on her shoulder. She jerks and cries out, but that hand just presses down, firm but not cruel. It's still night. The room is almost black.

"Easy, pet. You're alright."

David. Late at night when there's no one around to wonder what he's up to. Of-fucking-course. She twists and tries to jump up, but he pins her easily.

"Settle down, girl. I'm not going to hurt you. That's not what I'm here for."

They both know what he's here for. Ellie swallows and closes her eyes. She wants to scream and rage and fight, but she knows it won't make any difference.

"You must be cold." He lies down behind her and slots his body around hers. He slides his arm under her head as a pillow. It does help with the chill. All the same, she's trembling. He runs his thumb down her jaw line. "It's okay."

Resisting is not going to get her anything but more pain. She's picked up enough bruises for one day. There's no fighting him, but maybe if she waits this out, he'll slip up. All she needs is one chance.

He slides a hand under her jacket, under the sweater. Apparently, he's not even going to wait for the farce of consent she gave last time. It's just as well. There's no point in pretending this is anything other than what it is. She laces her fingers together and holds still as he cups her breasts and thumbs over her nipples. His hand is gentle, but she doesn't let herself trust that. He started off gentle last time, too. He noses into her neck. His beard is scratchy against her skin. It's familiar. She hates that it can feel so familiar.

He tucks his weight more firmly against her. She can feel his hard-on, even through layers of clothes. Ellie opens her eyes and stares out into the dark, trying to ignore the smell of wood smoke and the feel of his breath on her neck, then her cheek. "We got off on the wrong foot, you know." His voice is soft. It helps to ground her - to remind her of what this is. "I thought you just needed taming. Thought I could settle you down, that way. Probably scared you half to death."

She says nothing. He doesn't seem to need her to speak.

He pinches her nipple lightly and rolls it between thumb and forefinger. "I want to look after you. To keep you safe. But, you've got to work with me. You've got to give me something." 

She swallows, hard. Ever so slightly, she nods.

His hand slides back down her belly until his thumb hooks in the waistband of her jeans. He flicks it open easily and slides the denim down, along with her panties. "Easy, sweetheart. I know - it's cold. But, you're okay."

Spunk from last time is still crusted inside her panties. With the chaos of the past day and a half, she never thought to change them. She wonders suddenly if the men who knocked her out could smell it when they dragged her lifeless body down here. If Joel could smell it while she clung to him all night long. She bites down on her tongue, hoping that the pain will distract her brain from the helpless circles it's running in. It works, sort of. It feels like everything is fading out - losing importance the longer it goes on.

"Tuck your knees up toward your chest," David murmurs, "That's it . . ."

He slides two fingers into her cunt. It stings a little. She's not ready and it's a tight fit from this angle. He seems determined not to make it worse, though. His fingers stretch her carefully and after a moment, he pulls out and rubs over her clit. She closes her eyes and just lets it happen. It's not like there's anything she can do about it, anyway. It's just a physiologic response. It doesn't mean anything. She can feel her body responding, but at the same time she feels . . . almost nothing. It's like she's floating, far away from everything.

The rasp of a zipper almost comes as a relief. This part, at least, her body _knows_ is wrong. His cock bumps against her and she twitches away involuntarily. He locks his arm around her hips, stilling her. "It's okay. I got you."

She remembers being twelve years old and breaking her arm back at school. The doctors hopped her up on oxycontin to set it and she just . . . drifted. She knew that it hurt, but the pain didn't matter. She was outside it, just an observer. That's what this feels like.

She can't quite hold back a grunt as he lines up and pushes in. It doesn't hurt, not even in that dim, faraway sense. There's nothing she can do - not about _this_ and not about her body's response to it.

His hands close over her but they don't trap her because Ellie is stepping outside herself. It's not _her_ he has his hands on. It's some other girl. Ellie is standing just outside, where she can watch it happen. She looks away. She doesn't want to see what he does to her.

She's not sure how long it goes on. He's talking to her in that soft, breathy voice of his, but she doesn't understand the words. They don't matter - not really. What matters is the moment when it's _over_. He comes with a quiet groan and she feels herself sinking back into her own skin just as he pulls out.

She twitches her fingers. She's suddenly and acutely aware of her body - of the warm wetness between her thighs, the cold trickle of sweat on her face, the lingering ache in her shoulder. She's not sore - at least not more than she was before. He didn't get rough, this time.

David tucks her hair behind her ear. She can smell his breath. "You okay, kid?"

She swallows. "It's cold," she whispers.

He tugs her jeans back up. "I know. Give me a minute."

He stands and steps out of the cell. She rolls onto her back to watch him. She still feels a little lightheaded, but reality is crashing back, and with it, her mission. She calculates angles and distance between her and him and the slightly-ajar door. No. He'd be on her in about a half second flat. She needs another way.

He grabs something bulky from an upper shelf and shakes it out. In the dim light, she recognizes a blanket. It's Army-surplus, like what they had at school - scratchy, but very warm. She pushes herself up to sit. He kneels beside her and wraps the blanket around her shoulders, then sets a plastic water bottle on the floor between them. "This'll help. Get some rest. And drink something. We can talk more in the morning."

She nods and drops her gaze. He's zipped himself up and fastened the thick, leather belt. There's a holster on his hip, and in it, a revolver. 

Hesitantly, she reaches for his hand. He takes it and wraps his other arm around her shoulders. "It's gonna be okay, pet." She nods and lets her weight sink into him, like she would with Joel. His face softens, and he squeezes her hand, like Joel would. She waits for him to be distracted. For him to believe what he wants to believe.

She grabs for the revolver.

He's too quick - she should've known he would be. He reacts to the sudden movement by shoving her away and slamming her shoulders to the ground, all pretense of gentleness abandoned. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

Ellie doesn't waste her breath on a retort. She tucks her chin and barely manages to escape another head injury as he lifts her and slams her down again. Pain shoots through her, especially the shoulder that's already injured, but she can ignore it. She kicks, aiming for his balls but only gets a bit of his thigh. She grabs the hand on her shoulder and yanks back on a finger until she feels it snap. He yells and backhands her across the face.

"Vicious little bitch!" His uninjured hand latches around her throat and squeezes. Black spots explode immediately across her vision. She scrabbles at his hand, but he wrestles her arms down. "How many chances are you gonna blow? I am _trying_ to save your life!" 

The roaring in her ears swallows whatever else he says. She struggles to draw breath and can't. She stares up at the ceiling, not wanting his face to be the last thing she ever sees . . .

He releases her just before the world goes dark and shoves her away. She curls up in a ball with her arms around her head, gasping for breath. She hears him stand, feels him staring down at her. He's panting, but he slowly gets himself under control.

"An animal," he says softly, "Will chew its own leg off to escape a trap. Hunters find them a day later, twenty feet away. After they bleed out. They kill themselves, trying. They don't know any better." His feet shuffle. For a moment, she thinks he's going to kick her, but all he does is pick up the blanket and throw it at her. "Thought you were smarter than that. Might've thought wrong."

She clutches the wool with shaking fingers. He sighs. "I don't know if I can keep you alive. And you're making me wonder why I even want to."

She closes her eyes and wraps the blanket tight around her shoulders. He's going to do what he's going to do. It's not like she can stop him. She waits.

He snorts and turns away. A moment later, his keys clink as he padlocks the door. "See you in the morning, Ellie."

A moment later, she's alone.

Ellie refuses to fall apart. She can't let herself be paralyzed, not even by this. She grabs the water bottle he left behind, unscrews the cap with shaking fingers and takes a few long pulls. It's the first she's had to drink since morning, which might as well be a lifetime ago. She hesitates - he could easily drug her like this - but then decides it doesn't matter. She won't make it without water. She drains the bottle and sets it down.

On the tile where David knelt, her fingers brush something metal - something that wasn't there before. It must've fallen out of his pocket or something during the struggle. She can't see shit in this light, so it takes a moment of desperate fumbling before she can pick it up. 

Her hopes that it might somehow be a knife or even a gun are quickly dashed. It's smooth metal, about three inches square with a seam down the middle. She flicks it open and a small flame leaps into life. She hears a voice whispering in her ear, as if from another world. 

_"When you're lost in the darkness, look for the light."_

She draws a breath. Then another. It's something - something more than she had before. She can't stop fighting now - there's too many people counting on her. 

She stares into the flame and tries to believe.

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When he returned home well after curfew and found his apartment empty, the first thing Joel felt was chagrin at his own stupidity. He tried not to jump to conclusions, but . . . the door hadn't exactly been kicked in. No sign of struggle, no sign of anyone tossing the place, Amie was just . . . gone. And so were eight cans of Spam and a small backpack. That wasn't enough to get by on or even enough to trade for a one night stay in a hostel, but it would get you a few good hits. Joel put his gun away, grabbed a flashlight, and went out to look.

All the cheapest and shadiest shit was sold down by the wharves. Soldiers didn't patrol down this way - they lived to kill infected and Fireflies, not play vice cop. Even here, in the dim light from the occasional street lamp, Joel was recognized and avoided. With a few exceptions.

A girl of about fourteen sidled up next to him like a kitten. Despite the damp chill, she was clad in a blue dress that was little more than a negligee. It took Joel a moment to remember her name. He put a hand on her head and gently steered her away. "Not tonight, Angela. But, I've still got a way you can make some money."

"Yeah?"

He stopped and held up a ration card. "You know a girl named Amie? 'Bout sixteen, worked for Joey, and Vince before that?"

"Maybe."

He pulled out a second card and gave her a stern look. "Where?"

She hesitated before jerking her head. "Three blocks down. Boarded up house on the left with a green door."

"Buying or selling?"

"Buying, I think." He grabbed her arms impulsively, but there was no sign of track marks. "Hey, I don't do that shit! I was just turning a trick."

He released her. "Sorry." He passed her the cards. "Take the rest of the night off, sweetheart. It's too cold to be out like that."

He left without waiting to see if he'd be obeyed and jogged the rest of the way. Behind the green door, there were only a smattering of people sprawled across the bare floors of the shooting gallery, and most of them were beyond words. Finally, he got one of the addicts to point him towards the alley out back, where a girl had apparently stumbled off.

He rounded the corner, vaulted over a small dumpster, and almost landed on her. Amie lay sprawled against the side of the dumpster, vomit drying in her hair. Her sleeve was rolled up, but there was no sign of a needle. Her face was still - as still as death. "Oh, god, Amie!" He flipped her over and wiped her face with a sleeve. She took a breath, but it was shallow and rattling. "Don' do this, girl, don't you do this!"

He scooped her up, one hand under her shoulders and the other under her knees. She weighed nothing. "It's okay . . . you're gonna be okay . . . stay with me, Amie . . . I got you, baby girl."

The soft click of a gun's hammer echoes loud off the damp brick walls. Joel freezes.

"You can't save her, Daddy. You can't save anyone. Remember?" A voice that young shouldn't be that hard and bitter.

Slowly, he puts the girl down. He stands. Turns.

She's barefoot. There's bricks and broken glass and used needles all around her feet, but she pays no attention. Her eyes are cold and the pistol in her hands is aimed steadily at his chest. He tries to breathe.

"Sarah . . . put the gun down."

" _Why_? It's mine. You gave it to me, remember? In Pittsburgh."

"You ain't never been to Pittsburgh, baby girl. You ain't thinking clearly. Jus' . . . jus' put it down."

"And _why's_ that? Why won't I ever see Pittsburgh? Or Houston, or Disney Land, or the goddamn Ice Capades? Do you even remember?"

She's wearing a dress. A little blue nothing of a slip that slides off one narrow shoulder and rides high on her thighs. He recognizes it, with a thrill of dread. It's Angela's dress. "You like it?" she says, stroking the skirt with her free hand, "Thought, maybe you'd like me better dressed like this. If I'd looked like this . . . maybe you'd have done more to _keep me alive._ "

"He probably would've." Another voice. Just as familiar. Just as bitter. He spins. Ellie steps out from around the corner, dressed just the same. "That's your M.O., right, Joel? You only protect what you're allowed to _fuck_."

His breath feels caught in his chest. He wonders, vaguely, if he's already been shot. "It ain't . . . it ain't like that, Ellie. You _know_ it ain't!"

"Oh, _ain't_ it?" The sarcasm drips like venom. "So, you _haven't_ been using me as your blow-up doll for weeks? So, you _didn't_ pin me down and molest me in one of these apartments an hour after I _came to you for help_? Which building was it, again? Was it that one?" She points. "Could've been that one. Do you even remember?"

"Ellie, I am . . ."

"Oh, fuck your _sorry_! Don't you think I deserve a little better than _sorry_? You raped me. You tried to abandon me, and then you _fucked me up_ when I wouldn't let you. And, you're about to do it again, aren't you? I need you, and where _the fuck_ are you? Here."

At his feet, Amie takes another croaking breath. There's not much time. There's _no_ time. Maybe there never was. With that definite but inexplicable logic that dreams have, he knows what he has to do. He turns. "Sarah. Baby girl, you gotta let me go."

Her breath hisses out in a soft cloud. "Why? You deserve this bullet. You know it, too. That's what everybody says, right? 'I'd take a bullet for my kid'? Not 'I'd let my kid take a bullet for me.'"

"I know, baby. I know I deserve it, but _they_ don't!" He points at Ellie, at Amie, at all of them. "I can still _save_ them!"

"How you gonna save them?" She cocks her head a little. "You're the one that broke them. See for yourself."

He turns and it feels like dying. Amie is gone. Vanished, like she never existed. And Ellie . . . she's lying on her back, still as death, breathing shallowly. Her limbs are straight, as if someone's laid her out for a viewing. The little blue dress flutters around her, caught by the wind. He runs to her, though it feels too late already. "No . . . no no no, don' do this! Don't do this, Ellie . . ."

He kneels at her side and takes her hand, but there's no response. There's nothing.

The bullet tears through his back and out his stomach. It's a mercy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title is inspired by "You've Got Time," which I knew from the intro to "Orange is the New Black," but the extended version by Regina Spektor is even more fitting for this fic. Check it out on YouTube.
> 
> THE COLD SHOWER:
> 
> -Joel's flashbacks are a mix of memory and hallucinations, made worse by his fever. Amie did exist (Tommy mentioned her a few chapters ago) and most of his dreams are true to his memories, but at the same time, Amie, Ellie, and Sarah are all projections of his guilt.
> 
> -I hesitated to include the first scene, where Joel talks with Amie, because I wasn't sure if it fit with the post-apocalyptic setting. End of the day, though, a society that's as strapped for resources as the Boston Quarantine Zone would have some access to birth control and abortion, though how safe and effective it is could be a different story.
> 
> -Joel's controlling personality comes out in his dealings with the prostitutes in Boston. He criticizes Amie's lack of birth control when he hasn't seen her, much less slept with her, in years. He tries to police Angela for possible drug use when he barely remembers her name. He has a problem with mistaking control for care.
> 
> -Amie (with her lack of self-worth, reluctance to accept help, and substance abuse problems) is the product of years of untreated PTSD. Ellie, meanwhile, is growing fresh PTSD as we speak.
> 
> -Threatening, torturing, or killing someone's pets is a common feature of abusive relationships, and of psychopaths in general. While David wasn't directly involved in Callus's death, he rubs it in Ellie's face afterwards as a form of emotional violence. This is his sadism at work.
> 
> -Ellie experiences a dissociative episode towards the end of this chapter. Dissociation is often a sign of PTSD (or acute stress syndrome, which is the precursor to PTSD) and is especially common among children who are abused, sexually or otherwise. It's considered a self-defense mechanism for dealing with trauma that can't be escaped. Ellie's rocket ship fantasy back in Chapter 9 was a subtler form of dissociation. She shows signs of this in canon as well: when something particularly traumatic happens in front of her, the game's audio sometimes cuts out and cameras cut back and forth between people's lips moving and Ellie just looking dazed. This happens with both The Machete Incident in the first game and . . . The Golf Club Incident in Part II, and they're probably intended to show her dissociating and not absorbing what's happening.
> 
> -This chapter marks the second time David chokes Ellie. He does it twice in canon, as well. I mentioned this back in the Chapter 8 Cold Shower, but abusers who strangle their victims are much more likely to kill them in the future.
> 
> -Yes, Joel also has PTSD. No, this does not excuse his behavior.


	13. No Exit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Joel makes a decision, Ellie reaches her breaking point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sincere apologies for the delay in updating.
> 
> This chapter is exceptionally dark - the darkest I've written in a long time, maybe ever. Specific content warnings for extreme violence and torture in this chapter, in addition to the usual warnings for underage dubcon/noncon and dark themes. Read at your own risk. 
> 
> Feedback is welcome.

Beneath the piled covers, Amie's chest rose and fell steadily. Joel rested a hand on her forehead. Her hair was still damp from a shower that barely roused her, but her skin was warmer than it had been. She'd been out for hours, but her face no longer held that ghostly pallor. She was gonna make it.

Her eyelids fluttered without quite opening. She groaned softly. Joel stroked her hair. "Easy, sweetheart. You're okay."

Her brow furrowed. She was definitely coming around. She swallowed and licked her cracked lips, all without opening her eyes.

"Here." Joel lifted her head and raised a glass of water to her lips. "Just a sip."

She sipped and coughed and sputtered. Her eyelids flicked open, then closed.

"Take your time. You had a hell of a night. You're gonna feel like shit for a while, but you'll be okay."

Her eyes slowly opened. She blinked once, then seemed to focus on his cracked ceiling tiles. "Wa . . ." Her voice was a raspy croak.

"Drink a little more water." He held the glass and she took a few more sips, obediently. She coughed and cleared her throat.

"Where . . . where am I?"

"Back at my place," he answered steadily.

She looked at him, though her eyes were still hazy. "J . . . Joe . . ."

He hoped it was his name she was trying to say, and not Joey Marinelli's. "You remember what happened?"

She was looking more alert with the minute, though she probably had a five alarm hangover. She slowly pushed herself up to sit against the headboard. "I stole your shit."

He sighed. "That don't matter now." He dropped his hand onto hers and squeezed. "You overdosed. They probably sold you some contaminated shit. You're gonna be okay, but . . . it was a near thing."

She pulled away and raised both hands to grip her forehead. She was shaking. Little wonder.

"Lemme get you some aspirin."

She shook her head, sharply. Her eyes were closed. "You came after me."

"Yeah," he said neutrally, "Good thing, too."

Her brow furrowed. "Why? To get your shit back?"

"I told you, I don't care about that. You were in trouble."

"I was in trouble." She laughed, shakily. Bitterly.

He reached for her shoulder. "Amie . . ."

She slapped his hand away and _glared_. He rocked back, startled at the sudden vitriol. "What gave you the _right_?"

"The fuck are you talking about?"

"I'm not _yours,_ Joel. You've made that _very_ clear. You don't want to fuck me - you don't even want me to work for you - so, what am I to you?"

He feels his temper flare. "Hey, you came to _me_! I sure as hell didn't ask you to come knocking on my door."

"I needed a place to sleep! For _one night_!"

"You needed a hell of a lot more than that."

"Well, I didn't ask for it, did I? I never wanted to be your fucking charity case."

"So, what, you figured you'd jus' rob me on your way out?"

"Thought you didn't care about the Spam?"

"It ain't about the fucking Spam! For god's sake, girl, you could've died out there."

Her jaw clenched. Her skin was white - almost translucent. He could trace the blue veins running just under it. "Yeah," she said quietly, "I could've. And that should've been _my_ choice."

Joel felt his own face drain of color. He stood and paced in the limited floor space. "It wasn't an accident, was it?" he said, "The dope wasn't contaminated."

She shook her head, silently.

"You did it on purpose. You were trying to end it."

She swallowed. "It should've been up to me.

He closed his eyes. How the fuck was he supposed to fix this? Finally, he shook his head. "You ain't seeing things clearly." He looked at her and held up a hand, forestalling protest. "I'm gonna go get you some food. You try to rest. We'll talk about this later, okay?"

The fight went out of her all at once. She sagged and nodded, but Joel was not comforted.

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Necessity, as it turns out, is the motherfucking mother of invention. The shiv in Ellie's hands is rough. Every movement digs new scrapes into fingers that are already blistered and sore. It's the product of hours of painstaking work, melting down the plastic bottle with the Zippo lighter, folding it on itself over and over, scraping it against the cement until she had something resembling a sharp point. It's not much of a weapon. She doubts she could even break skin with it, but it's more than she had before. It's a tool.

She grits her teeth and wedges it into the sharp bend where chain link wraps around the steel bar at the base of the cage. She's tried using the shiv to force the window or pry apart the hinges of the door but has nothing to show for it but sore hands. In desperation, she resorted to attacking the chain link at the corner of the cage, trying to work it loose. It's working - sort of. She's gotten the wire fence unhooked in a half a dozen places, and the resulting gap is almost wide enough for her to slip out. She's running out of time, though. The light is growing, though there's nothing to see out the window but the swirling white of a snowstorm. He'll be coming for her soon. She slams her weight against the chain link, rattling it but failing to force it open. "Fuck!"

The distant scrape of a door catches her attention, all but lost in the roar of the wind. She tries to swallow, but her throat feels like a desert. Time's up. Nothing left to do but try to fight her way out and go down swinging, if she can. She'll have a chance if she can surprise him. Quickly, she drops to the floor and curls into a ball, feigning sleep. The shiv is a hard line against her forearm, concealed by her sleeve. She clenches it tight, to stop her hand from shaking.

The door swings open with a groan. She hears footsteps - two sets. "It's okay," a man whispers, "She's asleep."

It's not David's voice. It's vaguely familiar, though. She cracks one eyelid ever so slightly and recognizes the old sentry - the one who argued with David about her. She searches her memory. Larry. That was his name.

"Are you sure about this?" A younger voice. Also not David. She's pretty sure that's James, the jackass who first attacked her over the deer. "David's not going to be happy."

"I'm sure," Larry says wearily, "She's no older than my daughter. She doesn't deserve what he'd do to her."

Ellie's heart beats a little faster. Both of them, now that she thinks about it, were . . . uncomfortable with David. They both know what he is. Maybe they'll help her?

She hears a sudden scrape of a knife being pulled from the block. Her throat tightens. No. This is just their idea of a mercy kill.

"Keep quiet," Larry says. His keys rattle in the padlocked door. Ellie's hand tightens on the shiv.

"We should hold her down, at least."

"No. I don't want her waking up. It's better this way." Heavy footsteps cross the floor. She can _feel_ him kneeling by her head. Lifting the knife.

She drops the act at the last possible second by springing up and swinging the shiv at his face. By skill or luck or just pure instinct, she gets him in the eye. He screams and drops the cleaver in his hand. It glances off her shoulder but doesn't draw blood, and before Larry can recover, she has it in her hand and is rolling to her feet.

"Shit!" 

James is between her and the cage door. There's a gun on his hip and he's fumbling for it, so she does the one thing he won't expect from a small, helpless girl: she tackles him. He staggers back into the chain link. "Motherfucker!" The cleaver glances off his shoulder and into the meat of his neck, blood spurts out, but she doesn't wait to see if it's a fatal wound. She leaves the knife lodged in his flesh and runs for the door.

"Don't do this, girl!" She pauses for just a moment at Larry's voice. "He'll make it ugly."

On the counter by the door, she spots a familiar handle of carved wood. Her knife. Her _mom's_ knife. She has a mission. She picks up the blade and sprints out into the storm.

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The Boston locals said that Quincy Market used to be a tourist trap. In some ways, it still was. More than a decade back, FEDRA had taken over management of it and every other legitimate business in the city. Barbed wire ringed the structure now, and the four story edifices on either side were long ago converted into barracks and armories, but Quincy, with its granite columns and elaborate domed roof, was allowed to stand as the only officially sanctioned market left in the city. Inside what was once a massive food court, dozens of small vendors sold what few luxuries there were to be had in Boston: cloth and thread, Army-surplus coats and blankets, old furniture, toys for children. FEDRA maintained a constant presence, of course, but their patrols were more interested in breaking up fights and shaking down the merchants for bribes than in checking IDs or executing arrest warrants. The structure stretched almost a city block and was one of the few places left in the QZ where one could just loiter in peace and relative safety.

Joel leaned back against the railing of the upper level and pretended to be very interested in studying the dilapidated dome overhead. It might still be open for business, but the building hadn't seen maintenance in probably fifteen years or so. The dome was cracked in a half dozen places, letting drizzles of rain drip through. He shivered and zipped up his jacket. There was still no sign of his contact, almost an hour after the scheduled rendezvous. He had half a mind to forget it and head home, but decided to give it fifteen more minutes. Tess had gotten a tip about a secretive new client promising regular work and a handsome payout. Joel had missed a few jobs and spent more than he should've trying to get Amie back on her feet. Times were getting lean, and he really couldn't afford to walk away from an opportunity, no matter how skittish the client might be.

He was considering going for another walk down the length of the building, mostly to warm up, when a woman in a hooded sweatshirt stepped up beside him and settled her hands on the railing. "You know," Marlene said softly, "You really fucked me over."

Joel glanced at her, then away. "Don't know what you're talking about."

"Marinelli."

"Heard about that. Guess he pissed off the wrong person."

"You really gonna play dumb? He was doing important work for my . . . organization."

"I know all about the kind of _work_ he was doing."

"Be that as it may, I needed him. He was a critical link in the supply chain."

"There's nothing you were getting from him that you can't get from somebody else."

"He was reliable."

"He was a monster."

Marlene looked at him steadily. "Yeah, that's what people say. Thing is, they say the same about _you_." Joel glared at her, daring her to finish that sentence. She held up a hand, placating. "That's why I don't pay attention to _what people say_."

Joel propped an elbow on the railing and scanned the market, easily picking out three FEDRA patrols. For all their lofty ideals, the Fireflies could be as vicious as any other gang in avenging their operatives, but he had a feeling that that wasn't what this was about. "What do you want?" he asked, "If you were looking to have a . . . private conversation about Marinelli, you'd have done it somewhere quieter."

She turned and half-smiled. "Well. You might've noticed that I can't exactly afford to be picky in who I work with. I've got a hole in my supply line. I need some material moved. Quietly and reliably."

Joel glanced at her. "You need a smuggler."

"Word is, you and Tess know the tunnels as well as just about anyone."

He chewed on his tongue for a moment. Taking on a Firefly contract could put them in plenty of hot water with FEDRA, but it probably paid a hell of a lot better than their current gigs moving canned food and extra batteries. "What do you need moved?"

"Propane. Fertilizer."

He snorted. "You starting a community garden?"

"Hey, I don't ask questions, and I don't answer them either."

"Sounds risky."

"We've got the routes well-established. You wouldn't be procuring the goods, just moving them a couple of miles from the edge of the city to a drop point inside the QZ."

Right. One thing you could say for the Fireflies: they had connections. Rumor was, their network stretched all the way across the country.

Inspiration struck suddenly. Joel turned and studied Marlene's shadowed face for a moment. "Still risky. Wouldn't be cheap, what you're asking."

"We're good for it. We can pay thirty cards a run, with runs every two weeks. Payment on delivery, at least at first. You prove we can count on you, we can talk about advances."

"No," he said shortly, "I need something specific."

Her lips tightened. "What did you have in mind?"

"Your . . . people have connections. Routes to other cities, so you can move your little toy soldiers around. Like with Tommy."

She stared out across the market. "You really expect me to answer that?"

"I need someone moved out of Boston and set up somewhere new. Any QZ will do, so long as it's safe."

"Planning a vacation?"

"Not for me. For a kid. A teenager."

"No." Marlene shook her head abruptly and turned back to stare down at the lower level.

"You're capable. You've moved people before."

"People we _trust_. People in our organization."

"Look," Joel glanced from side to side and lowered his voice, "I've got a sixteen-year-old girl that needs a fresh start, and she needs it anywhere but here. Your pal Marinelli fucked up her life, and she ain't gonna make it if she doesn't get out."

"And I'm sorry, but we're not the fucking underground railroad. We rely on those networks to keep our people safe. We can't compromise them over some girl we don't even know."

"Thought you were supposed the be the good guys? Isn't that what you keep telling us while you're blowing up the goddamn city?"

"Keep your fucking voice down, okay?"

"I can get her outside the QZ. I can even get her enough supplies and rations to set her up for a while. I just need papers forged and transport to somewhere safe. New York. Philly. Fuck, send her to Albuquerque, so long as it's not here."

"And what happens if she turns on us? How many of my people do you think will die if she sells our contacts out to the feds?"

"She won't."

"No? Not today, maybe, but what about tomorrow? Next week? Next month? What happens when she's out on her own and some FEDRA informant offers her twenty bucks or a hit or a get-out-of-jail-free card if she'll just tell them how she got into the QZ?"

"Marlene . . ."

"No. I'm sorry. I can pay you thirty cards a run, no strings and no questions, but that's it. It's . . . admirable, I guess, what you're trying to do, but I've got to look at the big picture. I can't help you."

Joel sighed. He shouldn't have expected anything different. The Fireflies looked out for their own, and that was it, same as everybody. "Then, fuck your bombs," he said wearily, "And fuck your little war."

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Ellie sprints down the street, her sneakers slipping in the slush. She can hardly feel her feet and every breath of icy air stabs through her chest like thousands of needles, but she can't slow down. There's blood on her hands, the red a stark contrast to her blue fingertips. The whole town must be after her, by now. She's killed two more men by ambushing them in the storm. For her efforts, she has a 9mm pistol with two bullets left and a rising bruise on her ribs, where one of them got her with a baseball bat.

This town can't be that big, but she feels like she's been running through these same streets forever. It all looks the same, concealed behind the swirling white veil. She's running on fumes. Her whole body is shaking and she can't say if it's from exhaustion or fear or just the wind slicing through her jacket.

Up ahead, two men round the corner, with shotguns in their hands. She skids to a stop and tries to crouch behind a rusting car, but the snow is too slick and she falls flat on her face. She picks herself up and creeps carefully around, trying to keep the metal between her and them. She could . . . maybe take them out. If she could get them both with headshots. But, then she'd be out of ammo, and there's no knowing what they've got on them. If Joel was here their brains would be mush by now, but she's not him. She can't take them in a melee.

There's no point in dwelling on how long the odds are and no point in hoping for rescue. Joel's not here. She's gonna have to save herself. They haven't noticed her, at least. She waits until they're past and then slips down the alley they came from.

There's a sudden cry of alarm from behind her. She's been spotted. She breaks into a sprint again, rounds a corner, and sees an open window, high up on the wall. She needs cover. She also needs a chance to catch her fucking breath. She climbs on a dumpster, swings herself through a window, and drops to the floor.

She doesn't have long, but at least she's out of the wind. She bends over her knees for a moment, panting, then forces herself to take a look around. It's a big, commercial kitchen, the steel and chrome tarnished by time. She needs to keep moving. She pushes through a set of swinging doors and finds herself in an open, echoing space, full of booths and tables and broken dishes. It's lit with candles and gas lanterns. They're using this place. They'll find her if she stays. She stumbles towards the door, drawing her gun. She needs to find some place to hide. In a town this size, there has to be some kind of bolt hole she can crawl into where she can wait out the storm. It's suicide to go back out into that, without knowing where she is, but it's no less suicidal to stay.

She shoves the door open and has to bite back a scream as a body slams into hers. A hand closes around her wrist and twists. She drops the gun and throws herself backwards, knocking over a half dozen candles in the process and catching the ancient curtains on fire. She rolls and keeps rolling until she's behind a booth, out of sight.

"Didn't think it'd be that easy, did you, pet?"

The smell of wood smoke is mixing with the kerosene. He's found her.

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Joel felt twice as old and twice as tired on the long walk home from Quincy. It was stupid of him, really, to think that Marlene and the Fireflies could help. He ought to know how the world worked, by this point. He'd just have to figure something else out for Amie. There were a couple of legit jobs over in the manufacturing district - factories, warehouses, and the like. The pay was shit and the conditions would've gotten them labeled sweatshops once upon a time, but it was safer than letting her fall in with the first pimp who looked her way. Of course, even if he could find somewhere decent for her to work, that didn't solve the problem of where she would live or how she would eat or how the hell he would keep her off the needle once she was out from under his roof.

His mind was a million miles away, but his eyes never stopped scanning for potential threats. Still, when he saw the curly bob moving through the crowd away from him, it took him a moment to process what he was seeing. When he did, his face tightened and he broke into a trot. It was definitely her - she turned when he was about a half a block away, spotted him, and tried to duck down an alleyway. He caught up to her before she was halfway to the next street and spun her by the shoulder.

"What the hell, Amie?"

Fear flashed across her face and she shrank back. Joel took his hand off her, mindful of what this might look like from her perspective, but kept his bulk between her and the street.

"What is this? You goin' out for another hit? Already? Gonna make sure it sticks this time?"

"No." She backed away from him. "I left you a note."

"That's all you've got for me? A fucking note?"

She swallowed hard, then looked at him. "I'm leaving, Joel."

He sighed. "Amie . . . listen, I know you're in a rough spot, but . . ."

"No. _You_ listen, for once. I can't do this anymore."

"Do _what_? I ain't asked anything of you."

"Exactly. I don't matter."

He hissed in frustration, turned, and paced a few steps, running his fingers through his hair. "You think that because we're not fucking, you don't _matter_?"

She swallowed but stood her ground. "I think I never did. Not to you. I'm just a . . . pet project to you. You don't see _me._ "

"Amie . . ."

"You don't even know me."

"That ain't true."

"Oh, yeah? What's my favorite color?"

He sighed and tried another tactic. "Look . . . I know you're not used to askin' for help. You think it's always got to cost something, but it don't. I'm just trying to do right by you."

"Is this how you wrote this in your head?"

"Sweetheart . . ."

"You're not trying to _do right by me_. You're trying to wash your hands of me. You've written this whole story in your head that ends in _happily ever after_ , but it's not real. It's just a story that you tell yourself so you can stop feeling guilty." She paused. "Like today. Did you really think Marlene was going to take me off your hands?"

He rocked back. "How . . . how'd you know I met Marlene? _I_ didn't even know I was meeting her."

She looks him square in the eye and cold dread runs through him. "You haven't figured it out, yet, have you?"

He swallows. "The hell are you talking about?"

She smiles. "None of this is real. I left you a note, but you never found me."

"Amie . . ."

"You looked. That was sweet of you, I guess, but I wasn't down by the docks or working the street corners. You couldn't find me in any of the usual shooting galleries - I learned my lesson about that. It was easy enough to move in with a friend. Easy to tell them you were just a jealous ex-boyfriend when you came around asking. Hell, it was almost true."

"What . . ."

"You didn't _save_ me. Not the way you wanted to."

He backs away slowly as memory floods back, crumbling the architecture of the dream. He remembers that day - coming back from Quincy to find his apartment dark and empty, with a note tacked to the kitchen table. A goodbye. He remembers the nights spent combing the streets in the seediest parts of town, the weeks of waiting fruitlessly for some news. He remembers the night when he gave up and asked a pimp to just send a girl over for the night - _any_ girl. He gave up on redemption. He gave up on _her._

Everything around him feels suddenly thin and hazy. He stares at the girl. "What is this?"

She shrugs. "You tell me. It's your head we're in."

"Amie . . ."

"I'm not real, but then, I never _was_ to you, was I? You didn't see me as a _person_. I was something to fuck, something to protect, something to look after. A doll that you could hold through the night to keep the nightmares away."

He takes a sharp breath. "What is this?" he asks quietly, "If . . . if I can't change anything, then why are you here? Why am _I_ here?"

She shrugs. "Something's changed, hasn't it? You finally let someone in. Started to care. But, that's not going to be enough. You're going to have to make a choice."

"What choice?"

She doesn't answer, at least not in words. She steps past him, looks back, and jerks her head. He follows, fighting a sense of unreality - of drifting.

Amie rounds a corner just three steps ahead of him, but he's almost not surprised when he makes the turn himself and she's nowhere to be seen. The alleyway is dark, though it was daylight just a moment ago. And, twenty paces off, lying on the asphalt, there's a girl. Blonde hair fanning across the dirty pavement. Thin pajamas soaking up water from oily puddles. Blood creeping out in a slowly spreading ring, congealing on the ground. She's hazy and unreal like everything here, but it doesn't matter. She turns her head and reaches out a trembling hand towards him. "Daddy . . ."

He abruptly remembers the other dreams: the knife in his gut, the bullet in his back. It doesn't matter. She's hurting. She needs him. 

He takes a step towards her, but stops just as abruptly. Amie said something about a choice . . .

"What's it gonna be, Joel?"

He spins and finds her standing at the mouth of the alleyway, her face impassive under bruises and dirt. She's wearing a red sweater that sends a cold trickle of dread through him for reasons he can't quite explain. Her eyes are steady. She's the only thing in this place that feels real. He swallows. "Ellie . . ."

"It's fucking crunch time. You have to decide."

He stares down at his feet, fighting twelve kinds of shame. He knows what she wants, but it's the one thing he ain't been able to do in twenty years. He's burned every picture in his wallet. Tossed the watch she gave him into the Boston Harbor. Turned himself into the kind of monster he taught her to run and hide from. None of it made a difference.

"How can I leave her?" he whispers, "She's my daughter."

Ellie doesn't get angry - doesn't react to what that says about where she ranks in the hierarchy of his care. "She doesn't need you," she says simply, "I do."

He takes a slow breath. He knows what he has to do. He looks at Ellie with a plea in his eyes. "Give me a minute?"

She nods and steps back. She's always been more forgiving than he deserves.

Slowly, he turns back to Sarah. He crosses the space between them and kneels at her side. She reaches for his hand, but he doesn't take it. Her face twists. She grins bitterly, through bloody teeth.

It's not her, he knows. This is just the sharp edges of his own black soul, here to torment him. His daughter was safe, and happy, and loved. And then she died, and there was nothing anybody could have done. He didn't fail her, even if he's failed every girl who's crossed his path since. He closes his eyes and lays his hand gently on her forehead, remembering.

"Goodbye, baby girl."

She takes one breath, harsh and gargling, and then falls silent. When he opens his eyes, her face is still. Peaceful. He brushes his hand down her face, closing her eyes.

He stands slowly. The load doesn't feel any lighter, but maybe he's a little stronger now. Maybe that'll be enough. He turns to Ellie and nods. She holds out her hand.

He takes it and lets her drag him, groaning, back to painful consciousness.

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Ellie sprints, drops into a crouch, and takes shelter behind yet another booth. Her chest is burning, but she doesn't dare gasp and pant. She grits her teeth and forces herself to breathe silently through her nose. The handle of her knife is slippery from sweat and blood. She grips it tighter, trying to make her hands stop shaking. She can't keep this up. Her luck is going to run out any minute now, and she's no closer to finding a way out of here.

"Doesn't have to be like this." David's voice is still calm and supremely self-assured. He's coming towards her. She'll have to move again soon. "Why don't you just come out? You'd make it a lot easier on yourself."

She rises to one knee, peeks around the corner, and darts over behind the buffet, trying to keep her feet as quiet as possible. It works, for the moment, at least; she can see his back in silhouette as he checks behind the booths and under the tables. "I know you're scared. Frankly, you've got a right to be. Those were good people you killed. You're gonna have to pay for that."

She has to keep moving. She creeps up the short flight of stairs towards the entrance. There's no escape there - the door is locked, the windows boarded - but if she can keep David off balance, she might be able to sneak in behind him. "Here's the thing, though: you don't have to pay with your life. I don't want that any more than you do. You're a promising young woman, full of potential. You've got your whole life ahead of you. But, if you're gonna behave like a trapped animal, I'm not gonna be able to keep you alive."

The fire is starting to catch. It licks up the peeling wallpaper, pouring white smoke towards the ceiling. Ellie struggles to fight back a cough.

"Of course, maybe that's not what you're afraid of. Maybe you're just hoping that if you give me enough trouble, I'll make it quick. I can assure you that's not the case, little girl. Why do think it's . . . just you and me in here? I could've had twenty men searching this place. Dragging you out by your hair. But, that's not how I want to do it."

He's getting closer. When his footsteps are maybe fifteen feet away, Ellie picks up a piece of broken crockery and throws it at the far wall. It shatters, drawing his gaze. He turns towards the buffet, away from her hiding spot . . .

The moment his back is fully turned, she springs at him. He grunts with the impact. Her left hand claws at the collar of his jacket and she stabs with her right, trying to drive the blade into his throat. He reacts in less than a heartbeat and before she can judge success or failure, she's somehow flying over his shoulder and crashing into a table with a thud that reverberates up her spine. The impact knocks the wind out of her. For a moment, she can't even scream - can't even gasp. He could easily shoot her, but, like he said, he's not going to make it quick. He swings the machete and the flat of the blade catches her on the ear, knocking her to the ground. Adrenaline has her up and running in a moment, though she can't even feel her lungs. A bullet tears into the floorboards a foot from her sneakers, but she doesn't stop until she's on the other side of the room, able to duck into the kitchen.

From her concealment by the stoves, she looks down at her hands and swallows a curse. They're empty. She sneaks a quick glance up and through the serving window. David is pulling her knife out of the meat of his shoulder. He cries out once, then laughs darkly. "Quite the little paper cut. That's one more thing you'll have to answer for, girl. Quit making this harder on yourself!"

No escape route. No gun. Now, no knife. This is looking more hopeless with every passing second. Desperately, Ellie starts yanking open drawers, hoping to find something she can use as a weapon - a knife, a screwdriver, hell, at this point she'll settle for a bottle. But, the drawers are empty. The cupboards, too. Dust covers everything. Someone cleaned this place out a long time ago.

His footsteps are nearing the kitchen and she has to scamper away and duck behind the buffet again. There has to be some kind of way out. There has to be.

"I get it, you know. A horse knows the hand that broke him. A dog will return to its master. He _made_ you loyal to him. But, you're more than an animal, Ellie. You can weigh the consequences - make a better choice for yourself. You don't have to die for him."

Delayed pain radiates up her back. Ellie bites down hard on her fist. She wants to blame the haze in her eyes just on the pain, or the growing smoke, but she knows better. That's it, then, isn't it? The way out. The _only_ option that keeps her alive past this next hour. She has something David wants - something he can't get from her once she's dead. The dead don't feel pain.

"I'm not saying it's gonna be easy. But, you learned to submit once. You can do it again."

She wants to tell him to go fuck himself. She wants to charge him - to force him to get this over with quickly. But, it doesn't matter what she wants. She has a mission: get to Salt Lake City. She has to get there, whatever it takes, whatever she has to do. It's in service to a cause.

The footsteps are coming closer. There's nowhere left to run. She closes her eyes and steels herself. Coughs once to clear her throat. "David!"

The footsteps stop. "You ready to come out, little girl?"

She takes one more slow breath and opens her eyes. "Just . . . just don't shoot, okay?"

"Scout's honor."

Slowly, holding her hands up at shoulder-height, she stands. She's panting for breath, but all the same, she feels the color drain from her face. David is standing by the last row of tables, tucking his revolver into the waistband of his jeans. "Come on over here, pet."

His face is composed. Patient. Expectant. She's seen that expression on Joel's face, when he's waiting for her to pull herself together and get with the program. It's the look of a man who knows he holds all the power and can do with it as he wishes. She takes a step towards him. Then another. David is . . . really just Joel when it comes down to it. Joel without the veneer of gentleness, of warmth, of _humanity_ , but it's the same hunger - the same brokenness. She knows how to get through this.

She approaches to within arm's reach of him and lets her hands drop. She stares him in the face, letting him know that she's not afraid to look. He meets her gaze for a moment, considering.

The backhand catches her in the cheekbone and snaps her head around. She staggers and crashes into a table. Before she can right herself, he's behind her, grabbing her by the hair. There's a cold, sharp line at her throat, suddenly. A knife. _Her_ knife. "How about it, sweetheart? You ready to tell me where he is?"

She grits her teeth. This is about _her_ life and _her_ choices. She sure as hell is not going to sacrifice Joel over a cause he doesn't even care about.

"No? Okay. I'll admit, I'd be . . . a titch disappointed if you gave in that easily." The knife suddenly cuts down, and she gasps as it rips through the sweater and layers of shirts. He yanks her jacket down off her shoulders, then all the layers beneath in one hard pull. The knife presses against the underside of her breast, cold pressure contrasted by the warm trickle as it pierces the skin ever so slightly. His other hand gropes at her and gives her nipple a cruel twist. It's all she can do to avoid a flinch that would have dug the knife deeper into her. "You've got spunk. Fire. I like that about you. But, until you learn a little obedience, it's not going to do you a bit of good." She hears him fumbling with his belt. This is escalating quickly, like she knew it would. When he shoves her face down over the tabletop, she doesn't resist. She can get through this. It's just one more thing.

She expecting hands ripping open her jeans. What she gets instead is the sudden whistle of leather through the air and pain exploding across her back. It startles a scream out of her. She snaps her jaw shut, biting her tongue in the process, and barely manages to choke it back. The next blow lands just below the first, drawing a gasp and a flinch. He sets her knife down and settles his free hand over her neck. While she stares at the blade, just out of reach, his thumb rubs almost comfortingly.

"Have to say, though, you are beautiful when you're fighting."

Another blow lands, and then another. In some ways, the worst part is the sound - the loud _slap_ of leather on skin. It's a reminder of what this is: not a fair fight or even a heroic sacrifice but a punishment.

"Doesn't have to be like this, pet."

_Slap._

"You can just tell me where he is and be forgiven. We can be done with all this unpleasantness."

_Slap._

Tears are clouding her view and each blow is forcing small cries out of her. He wants to see her suffer - wants her humble and pathetic. She tells herself it's just an act she's putting on for him. She's letting herself cry.

"I can do this for a long time. Got plenty of other ways of breaking you to bridle, too. I'll get what I want sooner or later, so what's the point in putting yourself through all this?"

The last of her self-control breaks and she lets out a wrenching sob. He pauses. "Let's take a break."

He sets the belt down. Very gently, he nudges her to stand and turns her to face him. One hand cups her chin while the other brushes back her hair. There's no hate in his face. No anger. Just a deep, dark desire that's as familiar as it is sickening. "It's gonna be okay, pet. Just talk to me."

Her eyes blur until she can no longer see his face, and it's just as well. With one hand, she dashes at her streaming nose. She can't keep doing this. She has to give him something to placate him, even if it's an easily falsifiable lie. Anything that keeps her alive through the next hour, and then she'll figure it out from there. She has to try. For the cause.

"I . . ." She pants for breath. He waits. "I don't know where he is."

His face darkens with disapproval. "That so?"

"We were holed up in the woods. Out by the ski slopes. I went to look for food, and Joel was gone when I got back. He was delirious - he must've wandered off."

He sighs. "Convenient little story, girl. Shame I don't believe you." He cups the back of her neck. She pants for breath and waits for the hammer to drop. "I'll give you a chance. I'm a fair man. We'll go out to the slopes and you can show me the ruins of the camp. For your sake, I hope it's there." His fingers tighten and he starts to push down. "First, though, I'm afraid you're gonna have to convince me."

He shoves and she drops to her knees. She keeps her eyes on the floor for as long as she can. It's what she expected. She can handle this.

He tugs back on her hair and pushes his jeans down. He's rock hard, just from the satisfaction of beating her. "Open your mouth, sweetheart."

She can _handle_ this. She knows how. She opens her mouth and manages not to gag when his unwashed flesh fills her mouth, mixing with the taste of her blood.

He groans, long and low in the back of his throat and rolls his hips into her. "That's it. Knew you could do it." He thrusts a few times while she forces herself to breathe through her partially-stuffed nose. Her hands tighten into fists.

He has her head trapped in the cage of his hands. "Knew you'd settle down. Just had to find the right touch."

She can do this. It's for a cause. The greater good. The fate of the world.

"I know it's hard . . . but, deep down, you'll be happier this way. It's what you're made for."

It's for the cause . . .

_No._

The word rings through her, sharp and piercing and undeniable.

_No more._

She takes a deep breath, gathers all of her strength, and bites down.

()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()

From the moment he staggers up out of that frozen basement, Joel moves through the settlement like Satan's own pit bull. The constant throbbing pain in his gut doesn't matter. Neither do the many new injuries he picks up along the way - bullet grazes and bruising blows and a deep gash from a machete. The hunters, whoever they are, aren't subtle or organized, and Joel is grateful for that. All he has to do to know he's going in the right direction is to stumble along after their retreating backs while he picks them off one by one, or in clumps with the molotovs. From their panicked shouts and cries of _it's him,_ he gathers that they recognize him. This'll be the assholes from the lab, then. Good.

He knows before he ever reaches the town that it'll be big - that much was clear from the numbers and armaments of the patrols they'd sent out. It's child's play to take two of them alive. Takes only a few minutes to beat the truth out of them and then finish them off. They ain't equipped to deal with someone like him - someone who doesn't give a shit.

The storm is a curse and a blessing. He can barely see ten feet in front of him, but they can't see him either, so all he has to do is keep following the sound of frightened shouts. They don't have the wherewithal to set up an ambush. There may be a lot of them, but these clearly ain't professionals. He sets aside the question of who they _are_. Just people trying to murder their way to survival, probably, like most. Like him. But, he's better at this game. The bodies keep piling up.

The discovery of a human slaughter house in the middle of town dents but doesn't quite penetrate his emotional armor. He's heard of these, even if he ain't ever seen one - the last resort of the desperate and the starving and the insane. It don't matter. She ain't here, even if her pack is. The woman on the table ain't her, and there are no bodies - or _parts_ of bodies - small enough to be Ellie. He checks. She's alive out there, somewhere. She has to be. He just needs to get there in time.

He doesn't have time for fear or despair or mercy. His hands are sticky with blood and gore and he's low on ammo by the time he reaches the center of town. He doesn't bother counting the dead; he's too busy counting the seconds as he works his way toward the only life that still matters to him. Up ahead, smoke curls out the front window of an abandoned restaurant, and that seems like exactly the sort of trouble she'd make. He snipes off one more guard with his last rifle round and breaks into a run, though every step sends jarring pain through his abdomen. It doesn't matter. He's not going to fail her. He's got to get there in time.

But, when he kicks the door in and sees the blood, he knows at once that he's too late.

Much too late.

()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()

Blood floods Ellie's mouth in a moment, mixing with the acid tang of adrenaline and a sour taste that she thinks must be urine. David's reaction is an immediate, bestial howl, but she gets no satisfaction from it. He's yanking back, instinctively trying to get away. It's exactly the wrong move. He almost takes a couple of her teeth out, but in the end, they hold out and the flesh of his dick peels back like a rotten banana peel. She forces her jaw open before she can rip it entirely off, and it's a good thing, too, because the fist to the side of her face catches her a moment later and she has to give with it, crashing to the floor. 

David is still bellowing like a wounded animal, but he has the presence of mind to reach for the machete. No. She's done living in fear of that thing. She springs up and rams her shoulder into his groin, smearing the blood everywhere but knocking him back. A well-placed knee to the same spot is enough to drop him to his knees.

_No more._

She grabs the machete and swings with all of her strength while screaming at the top of her lungs. He raises his hands defensively and it catches him in the forearm and the shoulder, cutting to the bone. She yanks it back and swings again, aiming for his neck this time. Blood bubbles out and he drops to the ground, hands scrabbling at his neck, trying desperately to hold back the ruptured dam. That's probably enough to do him in, but it's not enough for _her._

_No more._

No more submission. No more pain. No more _you can take it_ and _it's fine_ and _think of how it could be worse._ No more unwanted hands on her or coerced consent or deals with the devil. No more _sacrifices for the cause_.

She hits David again. And again and again until he stops screaming. Until his face is an unrecognizable series of canyons, flooding with blood. Until the blood stops spurting and just pools, soaking her jeans from knees to ankles.

_No more._

Trapped in a fog of rage and fear and blood, she doesn't notice the crash of the door being beaten down. Doesn't even notice the familiar voice breathing "Oh, god." But, then there are strong arms around her, pulling her away, and her hand instinctively tightens on the machete.

"Get off of me! Get the _fuck_ off!"

"Ellie! It's over! Ellie, stop!"

He's trying to take the machete, but she rips herself out of his arms and stumbles backwards, nearly tripping over what's left of David. Vaguely, through her haze, she recognizes Joel, and yesterday she would have called that a miracle, but today she just doesn't want to be touched. His face is white and stricken. He stops trying to take the weapon, but reaches for her hands. "Ellie, we have to go. There's gonna be more of them coming."

"Get _off_!"

He rocks back on his heels. He's shaking almost as badly as she is. "Ellie . . . I know, sweetheart, I know, but . . ."

"No, you don't! You _fucking_ don't!" She drops the machete and shoves him back with all the strength she can muster. She can't see his face through the sudden flood of tears, but she hears a pained grunt. Her arms cross over her chest. Her voice is breaking and she can hardly breathe, but she can't hold back the words that spill out. "He knew about me, Joel, he _knew_! He could tell, and he . . . he . . ." She folds in on herself, her voice choking off into sobs.

He's silent for long moments. She can feel him look from her to David. He's taking in the bruises, the blood, her torn clothes, the gory mess at David's groin. She hears him take one sharp breath, then another. "He didn't know shit," he says at last. His voice is somehow both tremulous and firm. "If he'd . . . if he'd known the _first thing_ about you - about how strong you are, how brave - then he never would've laid a hand on you. He never would've dared." Ellie swipes at her eyes, getting blood on her face but dashing away the worst of the tears. She looks up at him. There are tears on his face, too. He doesn't try to hide them. "Ellie . . . baby girl, I can't ever make this right. I know that. But, I can get you somewhere safe. Somewhere better. Let me do that much, Ellie. Please."

She stares at him. She sees pain in his face, and shame, and something that looks a lot like love. Maybe it's a trick of her desperate imagination. Maybe it's a veneer - a facade. Or, maybe it's the real Joel that she's meeting for the first time. 

She can't hold herself together any longer. Maybe she doesn't even want to. She throws herself at him and he grunts again but his arms wrap tight around her. She sobs into his shoulder, smelling leather and gun oil and sickness. He rubs up and down her back and she can't even bring herself to tell him about the whip wheals because the pain matters less than just the feel of his arms around her. "It's gonna be okay, baby girl," he whispers, "You're safe. I'm not gonna let anyone hurt you. Not ever again."

She doesn't want to think. Doesn't want to question or doubt or wonder. She's tired of being afraid. She buries her face in his shoulder and tries to believe him.

_tbc_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE COLD SHOWER:
> 
> -Joel has built his post-outbreak life around one big lie: the idea that he failed Sarah because he couldn't save her. This lead to deep depression and feelings of inadequacy, which lead to him seeking out underage prostitutes, originally as an emotional crutch, which gradually devolved into sexual abuse. The abuse became almost a method of self-sabotage for him; losing Sarah made him feel worthless and monstrous, and his abuse of the girls who served as emotional substitutes confirmed to him that he was just as awful of a person as he felt, until he eventually became inured to it. By confronting the lie and recognizing that her death was not his fault, he gives himself a chance to work past it and address his issues. In real life, this would happen as a result of therapy and intensive, honest self-examination. Since this is fiction set in the mushroom-zombie apocalypse, you get fever-dreams brought on by sepsis.
> 
> -In this chapter, Joel refers to Ellie as "baby girl," for the first time. Previously, he has carefully avoided the pet names he uses in canon (even though he uses a lot of pet names) because he associates them with Sarah and doesn't want any reminder of her connected to his current actions. He uses "baby doll" as a substitute, which is intentionally dehumanizing. Here, finally, he's starting to let his walls down and accept his emotional connection with her.
> 
> -Ellie, meanwhile, has had a moment of clarity. While David was, obviously, a much more extreme example of abuse, what she endured left her seeing Joel's conduct in a new light. She is finally moving past denial and accepting that she's really not okay with what he's done.
> 
> -Despite everything, Ellie remains fiercely loyal to Joel, even when it causes her harm. Some of that is just her personality. Some of it is trauma bonding.
> 
> -Ellie accepting comfort from Joel in the end does not mean that they're going to be okay. They have a lot of issues to work through.
> 
> SO, JUST WHAT IS JOEL'S DEAL, ANYWAY?
> 
> I've intentionally left Joel's exact psychological motivations ambiguous. Feel free to skip this explanation if you'd rather come to your own conclusion, but for those who've been curious . . . this is how I explain the difference between the canonical Joel, who is a loving, protective-to-a-fault father figure, and the unrepentant child predator that I introduced in chapter 1.
> 
> Joel obviously suffered trauma and PTSD after Sarah's death. It was also devastating to his sense of self. He'd based his whole identity around being a father and protecting his daughter, and losing her must mean he'd failed in some way. At the same time, he was thrust into a brutal post-outbreak world where he had to suppress his emotions and fight to survive. Eventually, the psychological stress got to be too much. He looked for an emotional substitute and found it by paying underage prostitutes to act out a fantasy where Sarah was still alive and he was keeping her safe. He never quite felt right about it, though. He felt like a monster and worried that what he was doing was sick and wrong.
> 
> There's a subset of patients that psychiatrists treat who present with a deep fear that they are pedophiles. This is actually a form of OCD - they obsess over their physical responses when in the presence of children. The classic example is a man who walks by a playground, sees a group of kids playing and then notices that, oh shit, he has physical signs of arousal. A psychologically healthy person will acknowledge that sometimes those physiological reactions just happen for no particular reason. A person with a tendency towards OCD might obsess over that reaction and start paying attention to what their junk is doing any time they're around kids. Every involuntary twinge further confirms to them that they must be a sick, dangerous pedophile and their panic grows. These people *aren't* pedophiles and they don't abuse, but they suffer from the anxiety that they might.
> 
> Enter Joel, sad and angsty but not yet a child sex abuser, holding a young prostitute in his arms. And then he gets an erection. Maybe the girl even comments on it. He's now confirmed for himself that he's as sick and worthless as he already feels. He obsesses over it, but can't cut off contact because this is the only emotional outlet he has. He's living in a dark, brutal world where he's blurring moral lines every day. And eventually, he crosses a line that people with OCD pretty much never cross: he acts on it. And the world doesn't end. The girl doesn't act traumatized and maybe he even feels better afterwards. It decreases his inhibitions. So, he does it again. It's a physical and emotional release. And, soon, he's conditioned himself to seek release and comfort through child sex abuse and he's confirmed for himself that he is irredeemable.


	14. The Survivor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the road to Salt Lake City, Joel and Ellie discover that recovery won't be simple or straightforward, for either of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter depicts PTSD and passive suicidality in ways that may be disturbing. Take care of yourself and read at your own risk. Also, while there is no actual sex in this chapter, there is a scene of graphic fantasizing.
> 
> This fic is nearing its conclusion. I anticipate maybe three or four more chapters after this one.

Ellie stumbles a little as she reaches the top of the hill. Joel steadies her. It's been only a few days since they escaped the cannibals. Neither of them is close to full strength yet, but at least she doesn't flinch when he touches her shoulder. Her nose wrinkles. "What's that smell?"

Joel sniffs the air. It's a faint smell, like rotten eggs. "Sulphur." He glances up at the sky. Night's not far off. "Ain't much further." Just as well. He's starting to get the chills that mean his fever is spiking again. Ellie doesn't complain, but her gait is getting stiff. This track used to be a hiking trail. It's overgrown, now, slick with light snow and washed out by decades of rain - tough going. 

After another twenty paces or so, the trees open up onto a small, rocky clearing featuring a couple of small cabins and a spectacular view of the valley below. Down a set of rough-hewn stairs, steam rises from the glassy surface of a hot spring.

Joel and Ellie work in near silence to clear the cabins. The doors are still locked, but the windows are easy enough to break through. There's no sign of infected and no other squatters besides a few mice. The furniture is rough and falling apart, but the structures are sound and snug enough. They even find a couple cases of ramen and some canned goods in one of the kitchenettes. Once it's clear they're alone, Ellie wanders down the stone stairs, and Joel follows.

"I've heard of these." Ellie's voice is quiet and distant, like it usually is these days. "The water's heated by magma underground. Like a mini-volcano. They can get hot enough to boil a person alive."

Joel glances back at the cabins. "Folks were using this as a vacation spot before the outbreak. I don't think anybody was gettin' boiled in this one." He kneels and dips a hand into the water. "Temperature's pretty good. The hot water helps with muscle aches. Seems like we both could use that."

Ellie snorts, a sound that's meant to be disparaging but comes out a little nervous. There are a few rusted chaise lounge chairs clustered near the water's edge, along with a faded metal sign that proclaims the pools to be _clothing optional_. "That the only reason people used to come here?"

Joel sighs. "Only reason I've got the energy to think about right now." He knows what she's implying. They've both danced around the subject without really talking about it, but he's made sure she knows that his libido hasn't yet returned after his long illness. He couldn't do anything even if he wanted to. "We can take turns," he suggests, "I can get some food going while you soak."

"No, that's kinda dumb," she says quickly. She glances at him and shrugs awkwardly. "Nothing either of us haven't seen before, right?"

"Okay." Joel drops his pack and strips off his jacket. It's probably past time for his next dose of penicillin. He fishes the syringe and the dwindling vial from his pack, wipes the needle with alcohol, and draws up a dose. The needle is getting dull, and the first time he tries to jab it in his arm it glances off, leaving behind only a scrape.

"Here, I've got it." Ellie takes the syringe, sticks him with it, and injects the stinging liquid.

Joel hides a wince behind a nod. "Thanks." He strips off his shirt and pulls a scavenged roll of plastic wrap from his pack. "Help me with this?" He passes her the roll and she helps wrap it a few times around his torso. The wound in his back is closed, but the one in his belly is still raw, though oozing less pus than before. It's important to keep it dry. Ellie isn't shy or hesitant about helping, but once he's wrapped up, her hands falter on the way to unzipping her jacket.

"Hey," Joel touches her chin with one finger, "You don't have to if you don't want to. The hot water might help with the pain. That's all."

"No, it's fine," she says. Her voice is a little defensive. She peels off the jacket, then the hoodie and tee shirt beneath. Joel focuses on stripping down himself, but steals little glances at her as he does. The bruises on her face and neck are still a deep purple. She won't talk about how she got them, but the story they tell is clear enough. Under her clothes, though, the story is even more damning. Red rope burn at her wrists. Green and purple splotches over her ribs. Swelling and bruising that's almost black over her left shoulder. Purple finger-imprints on her hips. She feels him watching and meets his gaze. He sighs and ducks his head. Then, she turns and he glimpses the red stripes on her back and it's all he can do not to march right back and burn that damn resort town to the ground. He shakes his head. Nothing he can do now but make sure it never happens again.

He kicks off his jeans and boxers and steps into the pool. The heat seeps into his calves, then his knees. He sinks down into the water until he can sit on a smooth rock shelf and tip his head back to soak away the ache in his neck. Beside him, Ellie dips her toes in, gasps at the heat, but puts her feet in all the same and eases in more slowly. She takes a few slow breaths and closes her eyes.

"It helpin'?"

She nods, eyes still closed, and rolls her shoulder a few times. Joel sees her wince. "How'd that happen?" he asks quietly, "Your shoulder?"

For a moment, he thinks she won't respond. She's staring at the surface of the water and rubbing her shoulder. "When Callus died," she says finally, "I got thrown."

She doesn't elaborate and he knows better than to ask. "Easy to crack a collarbone that way," he says, "Could be why it's still hurting."

She half-shrugs.

"It okay if I take a look at it?"

She rotates her jaw slowly. "Sure."

He slides a little closer, hoping this isn't a mistake, and lays a careful hand on her back, near the base of her neck. A little tremor runs through her. It's not quite a flinch. This is the first time he's touched her bare skin since he helped tuck her back into her clothes in that burning restaurant. During the day, she mostly keeps her distance. At night, she clings to him, but only through layers of clothes and blankets. She can't seem to decide if she wants him close or not.

He lays his other hand on her shoulder and probes gently at the sharp line of her collarbone. "Tell me if anything hurts." She nods but looks away. Her clavicle feels okay, but when he touches the ball of her shoulder, he catches a wince. "Right there?" She nods. "Can you lift it?" She raises her arm and he presses on it, testing her strength. "Out to the side, now?" She rotates her shoulder and flinches. "Did you feel a pop when it happened?"

"Can't remember."

Joel nudges her a little deeper into the water. "Try soaking it a while. I don't think anything's broke. Could be a torn rotator cuff."

"Is that bad?"

"It'll probably heal up with enough rest. We'll get you a sling for it. If it's still hurting when we get to Salt Lake City, we can get the docs to take a look at it."

She slides down into the spring and leans her head back against the rock. "When'd you become such an expert on shoulder injuries?"

Joel smiles. It's the closest she's come to making conversation in days. "I tore my rotator cuff when I was just a little older than you. Playing football. I was going in for a tackle and the guy stiff-armed me right into the ground."

"That's the one with all the pads, right? And the weird helmets?"

He snorts. "Is there seriously nobody playing football in Boston anymore? You're breaking my heart, here."

Her lip twitches. It's not quite a smile, but it's closer than she's gotten in a while. "They let us play a little basketball at school. A little soccer. But, we never had much equipment, and half the time we were just making up the rules."

Joel rolls his shoulder and half-smiles, remembering the Friday night lights. It's been decades since he thought about any of that, and little wonder. It was a different person that used to step out onto that field. "If this world ever gets back to normal . . . put sports on my top ten list of things I want to come back." Of course, if the world ever gets back to normal, there'll be no place in it for people like him. He leaves that part out. Last thing he wants is for Ellie to be worried for _him_.

She's staring out over the water, wearing an expression he can't read. "Do you think we'll ever get back to that? Just . . . normal schools and sports leagues and shit like that? Do you think the cure can do that?"

"I dunno." He watches her face, looking for hope or sorrow or humor or anger, but there's nothing. Just that emptiness. "I know one thing, though: people are pretty good at rebuilding. Sooner or later, cure or no cure, folks are gonna find some kind of normal. Jus' look at Tommy and Maria."

She doesn't respond.

He presses a little. "They'll take you back, you know? When the Fireflies are done with you. They ain't gonna hold a grudge. And there's worse places to wait this all out."

Her jaw rotates slowly. "They won't take _you_."

Fuck. She _is_ worried about him. "No. I wouldn't either, in their shoes. There's too many kids in that settlement. Wouldn't be safe." He splashes a bit of water onto his face and tries to rub the grime out of his hair. "I'll figure something out. Always do."

She has nothing to say to that. She looks like she's a million miles away even as he's so close that he could reach out and touch her thigh. He doesn't. But, once the thought is in his mind, it burrows there like a worm. He can't shake it. Beneath the cover of the water, his hand clenches into a fist. After a few long moments, he sighs. "Anyway. Sun's goin' down. We better get inside and get some food going." Joel heaves himself to his feet and hisses at the shock of the cold air. "Stay put a second. I'll get your towel."

He carefully avoids looking as she climbs out of the pool, dries herself, and gets dressed. He's worried her injuries will make him feel sick. He's worried her body will make him get hard.

()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()

After a couple of long days on the road, Ellie finds herself missing the clothing-optional springs. Home tonight is a rusted out trailer with the luxuries of a couple of moldy mattresses and a woodstove. Ellie stares into the crackling fire without really seeing it.

"Ellie."

She hears, but . . . doesn't hear. She's floating, free from thought or emotion. It's the trick she learned back in that cage with David, and she's been relying on it more and more.

" _Ellie._ "

A hand nudges at her elbow and she starts. She looks at Joel, then down at her lap. "Sorry."

He looks worried. These days, he usually does. "Dinner's ready." He pushes a steaming bowl towards her. She drags a spoon through it, trying to guess the ingredients. Chili. Canned peas. Half a block of ramen. All of it's mixed together, like she used to do with the trays of slop in the school cafeteria.

"I'm not hungry."

Joel's own spoon is halfway to his mouth, but when she speaks, he sighs and puts it down. He pushes his plate away and looks at her expectantly. Ellie scowls. It's his latest rule: if she doesn't eat, then neither of them do, and Joel needs the calories badly. It's fucking emotional blackmail and they both know it, but there's nothing she can do about it. "Fine. Asshole." She spoons up some mushy beans and an indistinct red chunk, puts it in her mouth, and chews mechanically.

Mollified, Joel takes a bite himself. "We oughta be gettin' out of these mountains tomorrow," he says, "Should be warmer, then."

Ellie grunts. He's just making conversation - just filling the silence. She likes the silence.

"We keep up this pace, should be two, maybe two and a half weeks before we make it to Salt Lake City."

She ignores him and forces down another tasteless bite.

"We might even meet a Firefly patrol before we get to the city. Hopefully, Marlene has them keeping an eye out for us, still."

He's not going to quit. Ellie sighs and responds. "Do you really think she made it?"

"That woman's a survivor. She made it."

She takes another bite. This one's mostly ramen.

"Thought you'd be more excited about seeing her. You two seemed pretty close. Least as much as anyone can get _close_ with Marlene."

Ellie runs her tongue along the inside of her teeth. "Did she really know about you?"

Joel is silent for long moments. "No," he says finally. Heavily. "Well, she might've. My reputation got around. But, I was bullshitting you to get what I wanted."

A month ago, that would have enraged her, but not now. Now, she's floating. "It worked."

He sighs. "Yeah." He pauses. "You mad at her?"

He must really be worried if he's asking about her _feelings_. She considers for a moment in that distant, objective way that she can only manage while she's floating. "Yeah," she says finally, "But, not for the reasons you think."

There's another pause, even longer. Joel has put down his spoon. She wonders if that counts as breaking the rules. "Why, then?"

She cocks her head slightly, without looking away from the flickering flames. "It's dumb, I know. It's not like . . . anything that happened to me was her fault."

" _What's_ dumb?"

She closes her eyes, remembering David's hands closing around her throat. She can think about it, when she's like this. It's like remembering a dream. "It's what kept me going while you were hurt. Marlene. The Fireflies. The cure. As long as I had that many people counting on me, I had to find a way, no matter what happened. If it hadn't been for the cure, I could've just . . . stopped."

"Stopped fighting, you mean." His voice is tight, but it doesn't matter. Right now, nothing matters.

She nods.

"They'd have killed you," he says quietly, " _He'd_ have killed you."

"Yeah." 

The fire is beautiful, and right now that matters a lot more than Joel's simmering tension. She wants to stare at it forever, but after a moment, he takes her by the shoulders and turns her to face him. "Ellie . . . I'm gonna ask you to do something, and I want you to know that I'm asking because I care about you."

She looks up into his eyes, blinks, and looks away. "What?"

"I want you . . . to give me your gun."

That's enough to startle her out of her reverie. Her brow furrows and her hand instinctively goes to the pistol in the waistband of her jeans. "What? No. What if we get jumped?"

"If we end up in a fight, I can toss it back to you in a half a second. But . . . I really don't think you should be sleeping with it under your pillow right now."

She stares at him. The pleasant, floating sensation is burning away, leaving her tense and angry. "You think I'm gonna off myself?"

"I think the way you're talking right now scares the shit out of me."

"Have you listened to a word I just said? I'm not taking the easy way out. I've gotta get to the Fireflies so I can . . . fix this."

"You just told me you don't want to live anymore, and you think I give a shit about the fucking Fireflies?"

"Yeah? Well, what the fuck _do_ you care about, Joel?"

His jaw tightens but he doesn't look away. " _You_ , girl. I care about you."

She swallows and takes a slow breath. "I'm not giving up my gun."

"Ellie . . ."

"It's not yours to take, anyway. I stole it from David." Only after she's said it does she realize it's the first time she's spoken his name aloud since . . . before.

"David," Joel echoes, "That was his name?"

She grits her teeth and nods.

Joel just stares at her. It's clear he has no idea how to handle any of this. She can almost see the wheels turning in his head. She sees the moment he decides to back down. "Look, just . . . promise you'll talk to me, okay? If you feel it gettin' bad? I've seen a lot of people go out like Henry, an' not all of 'em planned it first."

She flinches a little, remembering Henry and Sam. "I've just got to get to Salt Lake City."

He nods. "We're almost there."

There's hope mixing with fear on his face. Hers too, probably. But, she wonders if they're hoping for the same thing.

()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()

Ellie really can't predict which nights will be bad and which will be almost normal. Sometimes the nightmares get pretty intense. Once or twice, she wakes with Joel's hand clapped over her mouth, lest her cries summon any stray runners to their shelter. For the most part, though, his proximity and familiar scent are enough to settle her when she wakes in the night feeling David's hands on her throat. Some nights, she can't remember waking at all.

A few days after their confrontation in the trailer, she wakes with the morning sun streaming through dirty windows. The house around them is silent and empty. The old mattress doesn't smell great, but they've had worse. Her head is clear and she's not trembling from fear sweat the way she sometimes is in the mornings. Pretty good night, overall.

Beside her, Joel twitches and grunts without waking. He's not the soundest sleeper either. She scoots her sleeping bag a little closer and leans her head against his shoulder. After a moment, his eyes crack and he rolls toward her. She lets him pull her into his arms. Being held still helps, even after everything. 

"Mornin'." His voice is rough with sleep.

"Hey," she whispers, "We slept kind of late."

"I'd say we both needed the rest." He yawns and stretches his legs out. She rolls onto her side . . . and freezes. There's a familiar pressure bumping at her hip. She swallows a sigh. Well, it was stupid to think his libido would stay gone forever. He seems to realize a second after she does. His body briefly tenses, then he turns away from her, adjusting the blankets to cover his groin.

It's not a big deal. There's no reason to be freaking out over a little bit of morning wood. Ellie clears her throat and strives for a casual tone. "Uh . . . are you . . . ?"

He sighs. "Yeah. It's natural. Jus' means the infection's clearing up."

Ellie stares up at the ceiling and briefly mourns the quiet, comfortable relationship they've had since escaping David's people. She always knew it couldn't last - that Joel still was who he was deep down - but it was so much easier thinking of him just as someone who cared about her. Not as someone who . . . wanted her. She pushes her discomfort aside. He's both, and that's okay. It has to be. She can handle this. She can stay in control and keep things from getting really dark, just so long as she can convince him that she's okay. That she's not broken.

She lays a hand on his thigh, over the blankets, and strives for a normal, even _casual_ tone. "You want me to give you a hand with that?"

He pushes her hand away immediately. "No."

"It's fine. It's not a big deal."

"Leave it alone."

She needs to stay in control. She can handle this. "I just . . . don't think you should be bottling things up. Neither one of us needs that kind of drama in our life."

His eyes close and his brow furrows. After a moment, he shakes his head. "That's over for us, Ellie. It's in the past."

She blinks and tries to process that for a moment. "Uh, okay." She hesitates. "Am I . . . too old for you now?" She's not sure what she wants him to say. Part of her is hoping that he'll say _yes_ while another part is terrified of what that might mean. If she can't give him . . . what he needs, then what is she to him?

It was an honest question, but he flinches a little. After a moment, he shakes his head. "No. But, we just gotta put a stop to it anyway."

"So, you still feel . . ."

"Yeah. Maybe I always will. Don't mean I have to act on it."

"Yeah?" She sits up slowly and swings her legs over the mattress, turning her back on Joel. She feels like she's just stepped into a dark room with no clue what's inside and no idea where the exits are. She draws a breath, slow and careful. "Joel?" she says quietly, "Do you think I'm . . . dirty? Like, contaminated or something because of what he did?"

He sits up as well and his breath huffs out sharply. "Now, where the hell would you get an idea like that?"

She tugs on her sneakers and focuses on tying the laces. "Oh, I dunno, maybe because you haven't touched me since it happened?"

He lays a hand on her shoulder, over the jacket. "I touch you."

She shrugs it off. "You know what I mean." She pushes herself to her feet and turns to face him. "I broke one of your stupid rules. If he had any diseases, I'd be exposing you too. Is that what this is about?"

He actually has the nerve to look baffled. He stands, shaking his head. "That ain't what I'm worried about. Yeah, they were stupid rules, but those rules were supposed to protect you. I didn't want you worried I was gonna whore you out or something."

She swallows. "And now?"

He rubs the back of his neck and looks away. "Look, I hate what happened. I wish to God I'd been there to stop it, but you did what you had to do to survive. Would you really think that of me? That I'd be _mad_ at you for that?"

"I don't know what to think."

He ducks his head. His face is haggard and weary. "Yeah. That's my fault. I should've been a lot clearer about everything." He meets her gaze. "Back when . . . when I found you. I promised I wasn't gonna let anybody hurt you again. That includes me. Especially me."

There's a lump in her throat and she's not sure whether that's fear or hope. "You didn't . . ."

"Yes, I did, and we both know it. It's time we stopped denying what was goin' on. You never wanted any of it."

Her vision is suddenly hazy. She blinks and makes herself scowl because she can _not_ be tearing up right now. Not when she's trying to convince him that she can handle this. "I'm not some kind of victim."

"Never said you were. You've been brave. You've been _tough._ You've been selfless. You're a survivor. But, I never should've been something you had to _survive._ "

She looks away. "You couldn't help it." She knows it's a flimsy justification - maybe even a lie - but she says it all the same. She remembers that shit show back in Wyoming and all the cold, bitter nights that came after. That's what happened the last time Joel tried to protect her: he shut her out. She can't go through that again.

He shrugs one shoulder stiffly. "Well. I oughta make an effort, at least."

"Joel . . ."

"Ellie . . ." He steps close and lays a hand on her shoulder. "I . . . I don't know if I can change. But, you've gotta let me try."

She swallows. "I just don't want to lose you."

Moving slowly, he pulls her into a hug. Dimly, she notices that his erection has faded. Something in her chest relaxes. "I ain't goin' anywhere." She closes her eyes and wraps her arms around him. Nods into his chest. After a moment that feels much longer, he steps back and brushes her hair behind her ear. "Now, let's eat something and get a move on. You've got a world to save, right?"

She nods and tries to believe.

()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()

Joel can't sleep. The sandy ground is hard beneath him, but it's flat and even and he's slept in worse places. They weren't able to find a house or trailer tonight, but the small cave that they did bed down in is secure enough. There's two entrances, so they can't get trapped, and they've rigged a noise trap at each one. They've traveled all day through the flat expanse of the Utah desert and seen nothing but red rocks and scrubby brush. No sign of infected, but if a few do wander by, they'll have plenty of warning. It's not anxiety that's keeping him awake. It's not discomfort, either, at least not the usual discomfort.

Ellie rolls towards him again, snoring softly. Her arm flops over his chest and her knee tucks over his thigh as she unconsciously searches for a comfortable position. He brushes her hair back from her face, then turns his head to stare at the arching rock above. There's no point in denying it. Even without the tented blanket at his waist, he recognizes the pressure in his jeans. The humming tension in his loins. He's hard.

He rolls away from Ellie to hide it. She huffs softly at rejection subconsciously perceived, but doesn't wake. She's been sleeping peacefully tonight, for once. He doesn't want to fuck that up.

He tries all his usual tricks for staving off arousal. He pictures a particularly gnarly clicker that they killed last week - one that was completely naked and had fungal growths sprouting from its pelvis. It doesn't work. He can't quite remember the look of fungal plates bursting through pallid skin or the smell of rotting flesh, but he can clearly feel the sharp line of Ellie's knee and the soft heat of her breath against his neck. Next, he tries for monotony. He visualizes every last step involved in cleaning a 9mm pistol. No luck - he just ends up picturing Ellie's hands and her intense look of concentration when he first taught her how to clean a gun. And that one night back in Ohio when that segued into . . .

He shakes himself. In desperation, he stretches his mind way back and tries to list every member of the 2012 Houston Texans. He's gotten through most of the offense and the d-line and is struggling to remember the linebackers before he admits that this is not going away.

He sits up and scrubs both hands over his face. The longer this goes on, the greater the chance Ellie is gonna wake up and notice. He can't have that, especially after how she reacted that morning a couple days ago. He stands, tucks the blankets carefully around her, and walks to the mouth of the cave. It's a clear night, and there's an almost-full moon, illuminating the desert for miles around. Joel stops just short of the trip wire and sits down, leaning back against a boulder that hides Ellie from view. She won't wake up, so long as he's quiet.

He stares out at the craggy wilderness for a moment. Under the blue wash of moonlight, it looks like something out of Ellie's comics - some mysterious, alien vista far away from home. There's no point in continuing to stall; checking out the scenery isn't going to make his hard-on wilt either.

He unzips his jeans in one hard, angry jerk, pulls himself out, and glares down at his dick. It seems to stare back at him, unrepentant as always. He sighs, takes it in hand, and gives it a slow, firm stroke. It feels . . . good, in a distant sort of way. All the usual nerves fire, and little ripples of sensation radiate out from his groin, making something unclench, deep within him. It's not enough. He knew it wouldn't be. He closes his eyes.

He tries to think about women - he really does, though he has to reach way back. He can't quite remember the curve of his ex-wife's jaw, but he remembers the feel of her tits well enough, when she was just getting past breast-feeding. It's not enough. He tries to think about fumbling hookups from his youth, half-anonymous one-night stands from before the outbreak, even the glossy pages of Playboy and the Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition. None of it helps. It all feels too distant and unreal.

He swallows, grits his teeth, and turns his mind to girls - to some of the regulars he's had over the years. These memories are more recent and have a bit more of a kick. He carefully doesn't remember their names - it feels strangely disrespectful to remember them as _people_ while using their memories like this - but he thinks about small fingers wrapping around his cock as he folds his hand gently over them. Silky-smooth thighs under his fingers, letting him slide them apart. Tight heat clenching around him and high-pitched voices gasping and soft hair brushing his nose as he leans close to whisper _"It's okay, baby doll."_

While he remembers, he strokes himself steadily, pausing from time to time to spit into his palm. He's harder, but . . . can't quite get there. His cock starts to chafe. His balls feel swollen and aching. He half-wants to just squeeze the whole package twice as hard - just dig his fingers in until pain kills the arousal and the boys finally give up. That won't do anything but delay the inevitable, though - push it forward by a few hours into his dreams, and he'll have to deal with it in the morning.

The memories of young girls are getting hazy - driven out by his mounting frustration. He stops, hangs, his head, and slams the heel of his hand into the rocky ground. He knows where this is going.

He closes his eyes, takes hold of his cock, and thinks of Ellie.

She springs to life behind his eyelids in less than a heartbeat, high-def and technicolor after the grainy images of all the others. The freckles speckling her cheekbone. The soft swelling of her breasts. Her hips settling into his hands and the way she bites her lip when he first enters her. It's been weeks since that last, lonely night outside of UEC, but it feels like a moment ago. 

He doesn't want to think about that night under the stars, though, or the empty, distant nights that preceded it when he thought he could somehow fuck her without passion and that would make it okay. He certainly doesn't want to think about the shit that went down back in Wyoming. He takes a deep breath and reminds himself that she's safe - that she's sleeping peacefully twenty feet away, completely unaware of what's happening in his head. He can't hurt her just by _thinking_ about it.

Fuck, it's a fantasy, right? He can write it however he wants and it won't be any more over the line than what he's done already. He leans his shoulder against the smooth rock and conjures a fantasy-version of Ellie. One he can't hurt. One who can even _like_ it.

The hot springs.

Joel pictures her sliding into the steaming water. In his mind, she's not bruised and broken and afraid. She sinks in up to her neck and gives him a coy little smile.

His cock feels like glass. He strokes slowly. This ain't gonna take long.

He'd slide close and put an arm around her shoulders, feeling soft skin wrapped in the heat of the water. She'd look away. He'd tell some sort of dumb joke just to see her smile and hear her mutter _"So fucking stupid . . ."_ He'd tip her head gently to the side and kiss her neck just below the ear. Beneath the cover of the water, he'd run a hand gently over her belly and up. He'd cup her breast, squeeze and massage for a moment, then give her nipple a little pinch.

_"Fuck . . ."_

_"You like that, sweetheart?"_

_"Yeah . . ."_

In the safety of the fantasy, she likes it. She's not pretending just to please him or dwelling on how she'd rather be with a girl or thinking that he's nearly old enough to be her grandfather. He's just making her feel good, not using her own body's hardwiring against her. She'd slide a hand over his thigh and take hold of his cock because she wanted to, not because it's a necessary chore. _Fuck,_ he can almost feel it . . .

He'd pull away from the wall of the pool and turn towards her, trapping her against the stone. She'd look up at him, nervous but unafraid. Her legs would slide apart to frame his hips, automatically making room for him, but he wouldn't touch her cunt just yet. He'd kiss her temple and lean his forehead against hers, all while working her breasts and flicking his thumbs lightly over her nips. She'd start to squirm.

_"Settle down, doll. We're gonna take this nice and slow."_

_"You're an asshole, you know that?"_

_"Yep. I know."_

There'd be heat flushing through her face, and not just from the steam. She'd close her eyes and chew on her lip and try to hold still, like he wanted.

_"Good girl,"_ he'd whisper, rewarding the effort. She'd whine, wordlessly. _"You want me to touch your pussy?"_

_"Please . . ."_

_"You sure?"_

_"Fuck, Joel, just do it!"_

And he'd laugh and slide a hand between her legs and brush lightly over her outer lips. She'd press into him, subconsciously tilting her hips. He'd wrap his free arm around her back and stroke lightly while sliding a finger between her folds. She'd be slick, and he'd be careful not to spread her open too far, lest the water wash away her natural lubricant. The swollen flesh of her clit would be hot under his finger, even compared to the water around them, and she'd whimper and gasp when he stroked it.

_"There you go, sweetheart. Just relax. I'm gonna take care of you."_

She'd be eager and twitching against him. He'd stroke over her slit a few times. _"What a perfect little cunt,"_ he'd whisper while sliding a finger into her. She'd be hot and slick around him - obviously ready, obviously willing. He'd decide not to drag it out too much; she clearly wanted it.

Besides, kids aren't supposed to spend more than fifteen minutes in a hot tub. He remembers hearing that, way back when.

Joel shakes off momentary discomfort and buries himself in the fantasy again. He'd step close, cradle her hips, and urge her to lean back against the rock. She'd look at him with trust and just the slightest apprehension. He'd guide his cock to her entrance and just rest there for a moment, feeling her heat against the tip of his dick.

_"Relax, baby doll. Just let me in."_

He'd ease her down onto him and she would gasp and freeze. Apparently, he can't write out that first moment of her body balking and tensing up, not even in his fantasies. Joel doesn't want to know what that says about him. He'd hold her and rub up and down her back as gently as he could while she relaxed into it. _"Good girl,"_ he'd murmur, _"I'm so proud of you . . ."_

She'd be so tight and throbbing around him. After a moment, her breath would ease out and her face would slacken. He'd brush back her damp hair.

_"Okay?"_

_"Yeah."_

He'd rock her gently on him, using short little movements that kept him deep in her and wouldn't wash away the slick. It would feel like coming home. She'd wrap her arms around his neck and all but melt into his shoulder, trusting him completely. He'd stroke tenderly up and down her spine.

_"Why are you so good to me, baby doll?"_

She'd start to get eager as her arousal grew. He'd let her set the pace a little, rocking faster and faster, but keep his hands on her hips to keep his thrusts from getting to hard. _"Fuck . . . Joel . . . please . . ."_

He'd slide his hand between them and rub over her clit. _"I got you, sweetheart. Gonna make you feel so good . . . gonna make you come for me . . ."_

She'd throw her head back and let out a cry and spasm around him, gasping and milking his cock so hard . . .

Joel snaps back to reality and has to stuff a fist in his mouth to muffle a groan as his orgasm hits. He narrowly avoids getting cum on his jeans. In the aftermath, he sinks back against the rock wall, trembling as understanding catches up, and with it, guilt. He looks behind him, back at where the real Ellie lies sleeping. Unaware. There's a blurry film over his vision and he has to blink hard a few times to clear it.

Fuck. There's no saving him, is there? After Colorado, he'd been so sure that things were different - that he could change. That he could be whatever she needed him to be. The long illness helped - it muffled his desires and quieted the demon on his shoulder - but his . . . sickness was still there underneath. He didn't change because people like him just _don't._

But. This has never been about saving _him._ All that matters is saving _her_. And tonight he didn't fail. She's still sleeping - still oblivious - and he didn't cause her any harm. Maybe his resolve won't last forever, but he doesn't need forever. He just needs to get her to Salt Lake City. A couple more days, and they'll reach the Fireflies. She'll be safe, at last.

He cleans himself up, careful not to leave any residue that she might smell and wonder about. Tucking himself away, he stands and goes back to her. Her face is slack with sleep, but she's biting her lip.

He lays down beside her and gathers her into his arms. She presses into him, instinctively, without waking. "It's okay, baby girl," he whispers, "You're okay."

_tbc_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE COLD SHOWER:
> 
> -So, my original plan was to have Joel's compulsions and hebephilic tendencies be semi-magically "fixed" after he confronted and moved past his guilt over Sarah's death (which was supposed to happen in SLC, not Colorado). In the end, though, I decided that would be too unrealistic and might feel cheap. Real recovery takes time and work, so while letting go of Sarah was a turning point for him, he still has a long way to go and might slip up along the way.
> 
> -Likewise, Ellie has gone two steps forward and one step back. She's acknowledged that her "relationship" with Joel is unhealthy and wants to set boundaries, but she's also insecure and deeply aware of how dependent she is on him at the moment. So, she falls back on a strategy of trying to give him what she thinks he wants while staying in control.
> 
> -Good on Joel for stopping her and finally laying things out when forced to, but the dude has communication problems. "We're not having sex again, ever" should have been the very first conversation after escaping David. As it is, he was giving her very mixed signals, especially when he put her in sexual situations like the bathing scene. Can't blame her for being confused.
> 
> -So, I did my best to portray Ellie's PTSD as accurately and sensitively as I could. She experiences a lot of dissociation - what she calls "floating" - which includes both the feeling of being outside herself (depersonalization) and the feeling that the world around her isn't real or doesn't matter (derealization). She used this as a coping strategy while being held captive by David, but now it's intruding on her life, making it harder for her to eat, and scaring the fuck out of Joel. Her nightmares are also a PTSD symptom, and Joel's method of stifling them by holding her down with a hand over her mouth probably isn't helping. Though, I guess it's better than getting torn apart by a pack of runners.
> 
> -One of the biggest risks to people with PTSD is retraumatization, which can cause people to re-experience the trauma when something reminds them of it. (That's why I put trigger warnings on everything and why I even warned for Joel's fantasizing scene in this chapter, even though I'm assuming that anyone who's made it this far is okay with that kind of content. I'm trying not to be part of the problem.) Retraumatization can come from something as simple as talking about it or something as extreme as being abused by someone else in the aftermath. If Joel had initiated sexual contact with her while she was in this state, it would have been the ultimate retraumatization. Even being around him and interacting with him platonically, though, has the potential to retraumatize because he's so closely tied to her trauma. She's mostly reeling from David right now, but some of her PTSD is from Joel, which makes him about the worst person to support her and help her with her issues. But, he's all she has, and they both know it, so they try.
> 
> -Do we have to talk about VirPed? I guess we have to talk about VirPed. So, at this point in the story Joel has resolved to live as what we'd call a "virtuous pedophile." This is the self-described moniker of an online support group that's been around for the past decade or so for people who are attracted to children but committed to not acting on it (either directly or through child pornography). They operate out of anonymous, members-only online forums, so there's no real oversight over what's said, but their stated mission is to help prevent CSA, connect pedophiles with therapists who can help, and help reduce the crippling isolation that might otherwise drive pedophiles to seek out . . . darker "support groups" like NAMBLA which would encourage CSA. Their philosophy seems to be that pedophilic tendencies are immutable, like sexual orientation (which the science supports in many cases) but that it's the duty of the sufferer not to act on it. That's basically what Joel has decided at this point - that this is just who he is and he can't change it but he can keep himself from acting on it. The thing is he started offending as an adult, and his desires probably aren't immutable, meaning that he could change. But, right now his close contact and emotional intimacy with Ellie is making it very difficult for him to break from old patterns, as demonstrated by the masturbation scene. 
> 
> So, here they are, both needing each other and desperately needing distance from each other for their own mental well-being. On to Salt Lake City, where I'm sure the Fireflies will make it all better.


End file.
